Christopher Haywood Poet Rhyme

Vaeloria Chapter 18 - The Return Signal

Far out beyond the mountain glass and frost,
Where signals from the older world were lost,
Lysander felt the tiny, persistent prick
Of distant lenses—cold and atmospheric.
Through ninety years of silver wood and sky,
He knew the weight of an observing eye.
He felt their mirrors sweep his quiet plains,
Re-mapping every river in his veins,
And tracking how the silver willow grew
To drink the poison till the air turned blue.
He did not call a council or report
To those who shared his bio-neural court;
The citizens of Sector Three and Four
Had earned their rest from any cosmic war.
Instead, he let his silver roots entwine
Deep down into the old transmission line—
The long-abandoned cables of the spire,
Now filled with sap and contemplative fire.
He did not send a mathematical code,
Or histories of how the borders flowed.
His retort was a pulse, immense and bright,
A sudden, focused crest of willow-light
That shot directly toward the mountain glass,
Allowing no systemic doubt to pass.
The message was a living, vibrant chord
Sown by the planet’s solitary lord:
We see you looking through your dome of rust,
Counting the casualties within our dust.
We were the warning; now we are the sign.
Unmake your fortresses. Dissolve your line.

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