I knew then I must, myself, name them,
though their urgent request was silent,
and, in silence, I knew, I must keep them,
for such given names have a unique power:
India, for she who'd strode away from shadow,
Solace, knowing compassion, the eldest,
Raison, with her flowing raven hair,
Ashe, she of laughter, yet sight set afar,
and, Tigris, for she forever slips away.
A pillow of my arm, India requested in tired-eyed jest,
While Solace scolded me for not making above see as below,
Raison shrugged as Ashe pled for better of the minstrel,
Tigris introduced me to those who've passed yet linger still.
As sightless night bore away time, my chorus would diminish;
First to flee was Ashe, with demand we meet again,
then, statuesque Raison, hair caught in motion without wind;
I looked about, but lost India and Solace without farewells,
alone with Tigris to make an appointment for stranger elixirs;
I then climbed the steps from out the cave,
my thoughts jangled, unknowing and unknown,
left alone to my own shaken devices,
I stole away, without a single glance back.
Only upon my long solitary journey home
did I bother to measure what had been given:
From India, a tome that newly weighted my bag,
from Solace, new armor I've yet to wear,
form Raison, means and shelter to any entrance,
from Ashe, borrowed potential to a means out,
The gift of Tigris, still unwrapped, sets my mind wheeling with mystery.