Christopher Haywood Poet Rhyme

Vaeloria Chapter 17 - Scribes of the Glass Mountain

The high observatory grew so still,
The click of cooled machinery on the hill
Sounded like iron teeth against the stone.
The master of the lenses sat alone,
His fingers frozen on the tracking wheel,
Refusing what the numbers would reveal.
For sixty years their ledger had been grim:
A catalog of stars growing dim,
A map of dead inheritances caught
In the cold webs of wars their fathers fought.
The junior optic clerks began to weep,
Not for Vaeloria’s transition deep,
But for the heavy weights they carried home—
The gray restrictions of their own glass dome.
They looked out at their city down below,
Where soot-stained towers cast a rusted glow,
Where rations dwindled and the sirens wailed,
And every dream of green expansion failed.
"It is a trick of optics," someone said,
A senior scribe who shook his heavy head.
"A planet cannot heal its own design;
No root can straighten out a border line."
But as the silver pulse renewed its beat,
The skepticism withered in the heat
Of that far, luminous and quiet proof:
That grace could blossom through a broken roof.
By morning, the logbooks were cast away.
The watchers left their towers for the day,
Descending from the cold, peak-sheltered air
To tell the crowded streets and public square
That out beyond their world of lock and key,
A sister earth had set its citizens free.

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