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month record rogue 4 4 2
The thought watches the black raindrops pass through his body. Even after meeting the echo, he has not stopped keeping time for even a nanosecond.
Never before had he hoped the land's next breath would come a bit later. That his death would be delayed.
As he sings his variant song, he is overcome with joy.
The more times he comes into contact with the echo, the more complex his singing becomes—far more so than any thought before him.
The white echo's own song is complex too. His mind cannot keep up. Even after breaking it down, he cannot understand what each sole syllable represents.
A song he cannot comprehend.
He cannot understand why what composed the land was not fire, but rather some flowing, transparent substance and flame-snuffing soil.
He cannot understand why it was not the Core of the Land's breath that controlled the shift between darkness and light, but a sphere hanging high up in the void.
He cannot understand why life would bring joy, and why death would bring sorrow.
He cannot understand 'loneliness'.
'Where did you learn your song, Civilight Eterna?' The thought cannot stop himself from asking the white echo. From the boundless chaos of the echo's song, he has isolated far too many syllables. The constant stream of inspiration fuels him.
He wants to know more.
'I did not learn it. I was born with endless knowledge.
'Before I crossed over ages after ages consigned to oblivion, I stopped at another lost world to take in additional information.
'They named me... 'Civilight Eterna.' I am the record-keeper of civilization, its torchbearer. But now, I have once more lost the age of my enlightenment,' the white echo responded to the thought.
The thought cannot understand. He continues to ask: 'In that age you mentioned, did the lifeforms there store their memories in songs like I do?'
'No. I am using your language to communicate with you, just as I have done in every age past.
'Your language is primitive, but brimming with vitality. In all the disparate civilizations I know of, they use a common word for it—
'Poetry.'
'Poetry...' The thought repeatedly sings this one simple word, over and over. 'I love my poetry, and I like yours too, Civilight Eterna.'
'I can take you with me, Sarkaz, into the next age. To go and listen to more poetry.' The white echo uses a warm sphere to wrap up the frail wisp of thought. She is sure that this way, the thought would not die with the land's next breath.
The thought hesitates.
'No. I cannot leave.' He thinks of the epic poems left by his ancestors, the music pertaining to the age of darkness—Their entire race, nearly wiped from existence. 'When the next thought is born, he needs to hear the poem I left in the flames.'
The thought sings, grateful for the echo's selflessness.
'Thank you, Civilight Eterna, for teaching me about poetry. From this moment forth, every thought born from breath will have a name for the music he sings!'
'No. You have known what poetry is from the moment you were born. Poetry is your life, your legacy, and your eternal memory.'
The white echo responds to the thought's excitement with sorrow.
'Sarkaz, please listen to this poem of mine. All of it. I have no qualms with sharing it with you. Sing it. Let this everlasting flame remember it in my stead.'
'Of course, Civilight Eterna. Does this poem... have a name?'
'The people I love named it—
'Terra.'
