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And always Orestes listened
and practiced his harp
for the journey approaching,
and the world contracted,
fierce and impermeable,
caged in the wheeling words
of his mother, caged
in a custom of deaths.
II
Three things are lost
in the long night of words:
history's edge
the heart's long appeasement
the eye of the prophet.
But the story born
of impossible fragments
is this: that Lord Pyrrhus Alecto
light of the coast
arm of Caergoth
father to dreaming
and to vengeful Orestes
fell to the peasants
in the time of the Rending
fell in the vanguard
of his glittering armies
and over his lapsing eye
wheeled constellations
the scale of Hiddukel
riding west to the garrisoned city.
It is there that the edge
of history ends:
the rest is a song
that followed on song
the story involved
in its own devising
tied in devolving circles until
truth was a word
in the bardic night
and the husk of event
was a dim mathematics
lost in the matrix of stars.
III
But this is the story
as Arion told it,
Arion Corvus, Branchala's bard
the singer of mysteries
light on the wing
string of the harp.
Unhoused by the Rending,
traveling west, his map
a memory of hearth and castle,
unhoused, he sounded forever
the hymns of comet
and fire perpetual
sounded the Time of the Rending,
betrayals and uprisings
spanning the breadth of the harper's hand,
and history rode
on the harp incanting
the implausible music of breath
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