The Breath of the Granary

Listen, listen, you who pass near the prairie. We are but the shadow of an ancient world. Once, the earth had four seasons, and flowers spoke to the wind of their fragile beauty. Now, only three remain, and at the heart of the reddened fields lies our salvation: the Granary. The Season of Blooming Then come the Meurs, carrying their buckets of salt. They cast it upon the tender grass. Soon the rains fall, heavy and clear, and the grass turns red, as if it bled. The prairie becomes crimson, crimson like a wound, then it withers, shrinks, and falls silent. Without this sacrifice, there would be no dust. The Season of Harvest Then come the Scrapers, armed with their tools. They scratch the red and lifeless crust. With each stroke, a golden dust rises. The pollen dances in the hot air, light as a veil, invisible as breath. And the Granary, unmoving and sealed, lets the dust slip inside. It pulls nothing, it forces nothing— it waits, and it breathes. The Season of Synthesis Then the heat withdraws, and the cold descends. The Granary remains sealed, hermetic, forever closed. Its silent work begins. At its heart rests the Stone, immense, white, gleaming like ancient salt. The Stone absorbs the drifting dust, makes it vibrate, and transforms it into essence. No one may enter, no one may see. And yet we know: the Stone breathes, the Stone pulses, and in its frozen silence it gives birth to life. The Athyrion and the Essence But the essence does not yield itself. It requires the Athyrion, the Guardian’s receiver. Fixed to his belt, it scrapes the surface of the Stone and gathers the liquor that seeps from it. Red, it is raw, unstable, dangerous. Green, it is calm, pure, ready. A single drop can feed, can heal, can lengthen life. But few ever taste it: only the chosen, only the masters. The Guardian And at the center watches the Guardian. Neither man, nor beast, nor spirit. A body of steel that never sleeps. He scrapes the Stone with the Athyrion, again and again, knowing neither rest nor oblivion. For us, he is priest; for others, a slave. But all know this: without him, the Stone would keep its secret. And we—we would vanish. This is what we sing, we who dwell beside the Granary. We cast the salt, we redden the grass, we lift the dust, and we wait. For all that remains of our world lies in the dust that becomes essence, in the Stone that breathes, and in the Guardian who scrapes, without end. End of the song