A Mind Blackened

As dictates Mursziv the Black Crowned to her scribe Sint Dekumir:

Once in a park lodged neatly in Vilon-ten, where the trees are full and grass pleasant; blowing in heartwarming air A woman sitting on a bench was minding thoughts of war and decay When she saw a lady dressed in white, in whose eyes she was aware of peace and growth; on her lips a calming song As their eyes met closer the woman in surprise suddenly felt herself embraced; a moment’s smile cast itself upon her face for reasons she did not understand The Lady Radiant knelt on one knee in front of the woman ‘What’s made it so now I’ve come upon thee; A woman in a black dress at the dawn of a bright day?’

Unable to give an answer the woman merely sat, now longing for what she saw in the Lady; Instead gave a signal so that they should sit together, to which the Lady with a wide smile agreed Then said: ‘Let me guess: ‘The day may be so bright, but always falls to night. Where light blinds my eyes, I sing under stars. Or maybe you simply are attuned in a manner I miss.’ The woman only sighed, but took the Lady’s hand in hers: she was at the brink of weeping, fearing to alone cry Followed the Lady whence she wanted even as they walked in grey streets and up winding stairs, to a home in the sky There the Lady and the woman now stood, in front of a glass wall observing the vibrant early world far below And the Lady said: ‘How come I should be here a-smile, glowing bright as the world can’t, and you a-drown in sorrow?’

The woman long gave no response; ‘I made no request for my Fate to be black!’ she then cried, weeping to her knees fell Wrought with worry the Lady rushed to her help. ‘Weep not if you

think yourself cursed! Weep not if you are Black!’ ‘Black my Fate is; Black I am for I walk it.’ The Lady eased what pain the woman felt, wept her tears, caressed her shame, cast light upon the shade When sorrow was lifted but no joy came, the Lady ever-shining took on herself the blame Told the woman: ‘I who should deliver as Angel am failed for you have struck me down: thy Black beats my White. Vica. When thou hath cometh upon the misery of the road of thy Fate, remember please at least my name. Kirisha.’ Saying words like a calming song, wings pristine and clear emerged from the Lady's back In a tainted glow she perished to the woman it seemed The memory of that perhaps fated day never cleared

Deacon of Zoknoraam