The sky is endless, veiled in ashen haze.
From that veil the wind ascends,
speaking the ancient wrath in my place.
It tears walls and roofs away,
shatters the bones of buildings into endless remains,
and gathers itself in spirals of living refrain.
It is the herald of the heavens,
the keeper of the wild domain.
It scorches the earth,
not with fire, but with the icy cold of its determination.
My steps strike the ground like stone.
I stand unbroken while ruin blooms behind me.
I lift my head
and face that towering storm,
the mortal terror of the plain.
It devours all but me,
drawing me near into its strange embrace,
as if it remembers only my name.
Its hunger is fed by others.
I am the sacred feast
it keeps untouched, unstained.
I raise myself into its stillness,
dive into the enigmatic clouds,
and memorize the shape of the celestial abyss.
It draws me inward.
My breath departs in silence.
Superior lungs gather where mine lie hollow,
and I breathe the unborn air.
Direction loses all meaning, yet my head does not spin.
The ground beneath my feet vanishes, yet my stomach does not turn.
I am not being kidnapped from the world;
I am being freed from illegitimate civilization.
The storm came to gather me at last,
as if I were a pearl from depths unspoken.
For every shining thing is chosen,
and must be wrapped within the spiral’s enveloping den.
― Atrona Grizel