Here is their meeting,
grace upon stillness,
mirror upon motion.
Swan and Lake
A Story in Liora — Reflection in Kinship
Morning spreads pale light across the water.
The lake is still,
its surface holding the sky without a ripple.
From the far shore, Swan glides forward.
Her body is a curve of quiet power,
her wings tucked like folded poems.
Lake greets her first:
“Larenu Velin.”
(I see the memory of you.)
Swan lowers her head in return:
“Halinu Orinu.”
(I tend the silence of presence.)
They speak without breaking the water’s skin.
Swan’s wake becomes Lake’s sentence,
each word a widening circle.
Lake shapes itself around her,
carrying her forward as if she were its own thought.
This is Haniru Marun —
connection through deep stillness.
When wind stirs,
their conversation changes.
The mirror breaks,
but not the bond.
Reflections scatter like feathers in flight,
and Swan laughs
a soft sound under her breath.
Lake gathers the broken images gently,
returning them to whole when the wind moves on.
This is Savinu Hinoru
to mend by gathering.
By evening, the light turns gold.
Swan drifts to the reeds,
folds her neck into the shelter of her wings.
Lake holds the shape of her there,
long after she has slept.
“Velin Sarela,” Lake whispers.
(I plant your memory as a seed.)
We move into the silver hush —
where water and light become almost the same thing.
Swan and Moon
A Story in Liora — A Silver-Toned Companion
Night settles gently on the lake.
The air is still,
and the water’s surface is a black silk stretched tight.
Then Moon rises
round and luminous,
casting a path of light across the water
like a road only Swan can travel.
Swan slips from the reeds.
Her movement is slow, deliberate,
as if she fears shattering the silver.
Moon greets her:
“Larenu Orinu.”
(I witness the silence of presence.)
Swan answers:
“Marun Halenu.”
(Stillness is my courage.)
They meet in the centre of the light-path.
Here, the water glows around Swan’s body,
turning each ripple into a moving star.
Moon lowers her light,
softening her shine to meet Swan’s calm.
This is Hinari Elura
the space between, filled with filtered light.
Swan tells Moon of the lake’s changing moods,
the storms,
the wind-born waves,
the days when rain hides the sky.
Moon listens without interruption,
offering silver in place of answers.
When Swan glides back toward the reeds,
the path of light bends to follow her,
as if Moon cannot quite let her go.
“Navasu Sava,” Moon says.
(My softened grief belongs to you.)
Swan replies:
“Velin Haniravu.”
(My memory weaves itself into kinship with you.)