Written By Zyanya
Dec. 12, 2020, 7:27 a.m.(7/20/1014 AR)
These swallowed tears
rest cool on my tongue
a blessed pearl.
rest cool on my tongue
a blessed pearl.
Written By Zyanya
Dec. 5, 2020, 7:27 p.m.(7/7/1014 AR)
The promise of dawn, of this
rose-gold cacophany is a secret kept
behind the fanning clouds.
Only the clouds know how to smile as you do,
how to smile and how to move on.
rose-gold cacophany is a secret kept
behind the fanning clouds.
Only the clouds know how to smile as you do,
how to smile and how to move on.
Written By Zyanya
Nov. 30, 2020, 8 a.m.(6/24/1014 AR)
Every dancer must stand in stillness
waiting, poised on feet prepared to ache,
breath trembling and ready for the call
to motion, the demand of drumbeat
and movement.
I am waiting still and in my ears
there is only my steady heart.
waiting, poised on feet prepared to ache,
breath trembling and ready for the call
to motion, the demand of drumbeat
and movement.
I am waiting still and in my ears
there is only my steady heart.
Written By Zyanya
Nov. 29, 2020, 10:29 p.m.(6/23/1014 AR)
This moon-washed garden
hides its green and gold finery
but shares its lambent glow.
hides its green and gold finery
but shares its lambent glow.
Written By Zyanya
Nov. 21, 2020, 6:22 a.m.(6/6/1014 AR)
I listen for the bell--hard-struck bronze--but in my ears silence hums
not the death of dreams but the absence of them, chasing sleep away.
There is no space for sound among all of this red, these stares, this fury.
If I am calm enough--still enough--quiet enough, maybe...
Maybe it will come to me, the sign that there is a home here, waiting
to be found, the promise of a hearth, a place where I will not be cold,
where I will not be lonely.
not the death of dreams but the absence of them, chasing sleep away.
There is no space for sound among all of this red, these stares, this fury.
If I am calm enough--still enough--quiet enough, maybe...
Maybe it will come to me, the sign that there is a home here, waiting
to be found, the promise of a hearth, a place where I will not be cold,
where I will not be lonely.
Written By Zyanya
Nov. 21, 2020, 1:32 a.m.(6/5/1014 AR)
Without lure or bait
the lull of breath over lips
the surf comes to my hand
sea reflects sky reflects sea
the mirror I collect in palm
the lull of breath over lips
the surf comes to my hand
sea reflects sky reflects sea
the mirror I collect in palm
Written By Zyanya
Nov. 13, 2020, 5:51 p.m.(5/18/1014 AR)
Relationship Note on Niklas
Surely the Playwright can find more clever ways to silence a common woman speaking to other common people than calling names.
Written By Zyanya
Nov. 13, 2020, 3:53 p.m.(5/18/1014 AR)
Relationship Note on Tyrus
Perhaps it is that I still learn the language but your question confuses me, Highness. If they did not lift my writs...yes? This would prove something else entirely? If that happens in other countries it is terrible. But it did not and does not happen in mine, I am here to prove that they are lifted when requested, so...thank you for helping me to imagine this flight of fancy that does not touch on reality in Jadairal. That is the phrase, yes? Flight of fancy?
What if the sun rose blue tomorrow?
I would not be standing here to say
what if.
What if the sun rose blue tomorrow?
I would not be standing here to say
what if.
Written By Zyanya
Nov. 12, 2020, 11:02 p.m.(5/16/1014 AR)
In the water garden
the roots spread wide
through shadow and silt
without soil's restraint.
So too in bloody pools
to reap darker blooms.
the roots spread wide
through shadow and silt
without soil's restraint.
So too in bloody pools
to reap darker blooms.
Written By Zyanya
Nov. 12, 2020, 9:35 p.m.(5/16/1014 AR)
Relationship Note on Valdemar
You are mistaken, Duke Grimhall, and speak from assumption rather than knowledge. An example of why you are wrong: I bore the writs of an Imperial citizen for thirty years, but when petition was made for me to leave Jadairal and come here to learn Arvum, those writs were lifted without argument when we asked. We maintain as much free will there as people do here, under your oaths and the restrictions which come from birth and station.
As well, Skald has been worshiped in Jadairal, in Weijin, since before you were a Compact. Skald and all of the gods. The Empire is faithful to the Pantheon.
My invitation was not made to you but to those born without your many advantages. I hope they hear it. But also I hope if you wish to learn more, you ask the emissaries here for permission to visit and see for yourself. To properly learn and do away with your assumptions.
As well, Skald has been worshiped in Jadairal, in Weijin, since before you were a Compact. Skald and all of the gods. The Empire is faithful to the Pantheon.
My invitation was not made to you but to those born without your many advantages. I hope they hear it. But also I hope if you wish to learn more, you ask the emissaries here for permission to visit and see for yourself. To properly learn and do away with your assumptions.
Written By Zyanya
Nov. 11, 2020, 9:08 p.m.(5/14/1014 AR)
I have been privileged under the shadow of the Platinum Throne. Safe from war, safe from men with swords and torches. My mother did not fear to let me play in the sunlight--there were no dangers in our streets.
I have never heard screams like those heard today.
If you are tired of this--the threat of war, these acts of violence, the grand speeches and grand gestures of the highborn, wealthy and mighty--there is another way. Another place. For eight hundred years and more its children have not known war, they have been kept safe at borders and in cities. They are are fed the same, clothed the same, protected and taught the same as any other. Serf and peasant and commoners are not known there. They are citizens and counted of equal worth--and they may be taught wonders, and power great as any hero this land has produced, to rise and shelter others in turn. You do not need to fear for yourself there or for your children. The gods are there too, the Pantheon as it has been always.
I am here and here I will stay. But if you wish to be safe and you do not wish to be here in this, if Skald's choice and sacrifice are honored here, you may choose to walk this path. Emissary Zulana can show you and she will keep you safe.
I have never heard screams like those heard today.
If you are tired of this--the threat of war, these acts of violence, the grand speeches and grand gestures of the highborn, wealthy and mighty--there is another way. Another place. For eight hundred years and more its children have not known war, they have been kept safe at borders and in cities. They are are fed the same, clothed the same, protected and taught the same as any other. Serf and peasant and commoners are not known there. They are citizens and counted of equal worth--and they may be taught wonders, and power great as any hero this land has produced, to rise and shelter others in turn. You do not need to fear for yourself there or for your children. The gods are there too, the Pantheon as it has been always.
I am here and here I will stay. But if you wish to be safe and you do not wish to be here in this, if Skald's choice and sacrifice are honored here, you may choose to walk this path. Emissary Zulana can show you and she will keep you safe.
Written By Zyanya
Nov. 8, 2020, 7:25 p.m.(5/8/1014 AR)
Give me the spring storms again
lightning-slashed clouds
waves arched to meet the rain
These months remind me of honesty
that soft sighs, sweet touches
so often conceal the urge to strike.
lightning-slashed clouds
waves arched to meet the rain
These months remind me of honesty
that soft sighs, sweet touches
so often conceal the urge to strike.
Written By Zyanya
Nov. 4, 2020, 1:02 a.m.(4/27/1014 AR)
Whose dream is this in which I run,
dark and unfettered, hands full of silk,
a song in my heart, a smile on my lips?
I knew myself once before this forest,
before this chase, but it has gone now,
like the blue of my eyes, heat in my veins.
Whose dream is this in which I run,
my elbow already caught by his hand,
the path ahead already turned.
Whose dreams draw such shadows?
I knew myself once.
Whose dream is this?
dark and unfettered, hands full of silk,
a song in my heart, a smile on my lips?
I knew myself once before this forest,
before this chase, but it has gone now,
like the blue of my eyes, heat in my veins.
Whose dream is this in which I run,
my elbow already caught by his hand,
the path ahead already turned.
Whose dreams draw such shadows?
I knew myself once.
Whose dream is this?
Written By Zyanya
Oct. 30, 2020, 5:46 a.m.(4/17/1014 AR)
The Arvani tongue is a delight. Boonswoggle? Poppycock? I do not know how to say bamboozlement aloud but it is a pleasing maze to send my pen through.
The scholar teaches me that farfnoogat is not a true word though. A shame. It looks like it could be real in Arvum.
The scholar teaches me that farfnoogat is not a true word though. A shame. It looks like it could be real in Arvum.
Written By Zyanya
Oct. 25, 2020, 6:22 a.m.(4/7/1014 AR)
This is a new word I learned: cacophony. A word I did not know when deafened by the many voices raised in many passions, my first weeks here with the ringing in my head of too many paths. Arvum is a roar, a storm, of many voices. You are cacophony. I did not see the nation, the one made of many, until now. This is a new phrase I learned: to call your banners. Now the storm is one.
We are bound not by breath but by salt,
shore to shore and blood to blood.
We are bound not by breath but by salt,
shore to shore and blood to blood.
Written By Zyanya
Oct. 25, 2020, 6:22 a.m.(4/7/1014 AR)
This is a new word I learned: cacophony. A word I did not know when deafened by the many voices raised in many passions, my first weeks here with the ringing in my head of too many paths. Arvum is a roar, a storm, of many voices. You are cacophony. I did not see the nation, the one made of many, until now. This is a new phrase I learned: to call your banners. Now the storm is one.
We are bound not by breath but by salt,
shore to shore and blood to blood.
We are bound not by breath but by salt,
shore to shore and blood to blood.
Written By Zyanya
Oct. 25, 2020, 6:14 a.m.(4/7/1014 AR)
The ground is soft again
ready for the plunging hand
the seed, the sprout,
ready for the dream
of what comes next.
I will make a blanket of it
this soil and this dream
and drawing it over my head
I wait for my harvest.
ready for the plunging hand
the seed, the sprout,
ready for the dream
of what comes next.
I will make a blanket of it
this soil and this dream
and drawing it over my head
I wait for my harvest.
Written By Zyanya
Oct. 21, 2020, 1:40 a.m.(3/27/1014 AR)
The snow piles high,
The lanterns dim.
On the altar
a single feather.
The lanterns dim.
On the altar
a single feather.
Written By Zyanya
Oct. 15, 2020, 4:27 a.m.(3/15/1014 AR)
It is said to me that here those with feelings for another will seek to do them harm. Attraction brings them to lash out at the cause of it. Perhaps this explains some of the hurts I have collected since coming to the city. Another facet to what it means to be Arvani. From pain comes poetry. I will be stronger in my art for this.
Alone,
I fill these broken places
with seams of gold.
Alone,
I fill these broken places
with seams of gold.
Written By Zyanya
Oct. 15, 2020, 1:56 a.m.(3/15/1014 AR)
Sitting in the garden I lift my hand to catch the snow, thinking of the clouds which birthed each flake, but not of how I have stopped their journey toward the ground.
Winter storms move on
carried away on winter winds
my hands close on water.
Winter storms move on
carried away on winter winds
my hands close on water.
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