Daughter of Shadowlight

I. The Veil of Dawn

Before dawn dreams her name, I stand unspoken—

barefoot in the hush where mists remember.

The world holds its breath.

Beneath my skin, a pulse begins to rise—

the Wellspring whispering through bone and blood,

through roots that reach and dream of light.

The orchard bends to listen.

Leaves tremble with a knowing older than night.

They call me by my truest name,

the one I hid within their shade.

And I ask the wind, soft as prayer—

Who am I, when even the light forgets me there?

II. The Mask of Day

When morning breaks, I borrow her brightness.

I braid her gold through my hair,

let laughter fall like petals, fair and fleeting.

The world believes in radiance—

how could it not?

They see the shimmer, not the shadow shaping it.

I speak in streams, serene and still,

and move as if untouched.

But beneath the calm, my other self stirs—

she who keeps the storm,

who guards each unspoken truth

like glass beneath her tongue,

gleaming and sharp,

awaiting a song.

III. Beneath the Wellspring

There is a river beneath the river—

its water darker, older, awake.

It hums with the silences I have swallowed,

the dreams that drowned before they could wake.

When I close my eyes, I hear it calling,

a voice made of memory and time.

It moves through me, not around—

fills my hollows with its sound.

Here I am not flesh, but echo,

not girl, but glimmer of what endures.

The light above may lose my name,

but the deep remembers,

and hums it home in song.

IV. The Fracture

The mirror shivers—light and shadow cleaving.

I see my faces flicker, flame and frost,

each one a story I have worn and lost.

The air itself is split with sound,

a chorus rising from the ground—

the echo of what I denied too long.

The storm within me opens wide,

its thunder tasting of truth and tide.

I reach into the breaking,

and the breaking reaches back.

Through splintered glass and gleaming vein,

I gather what remains—

both the wound and what it weaves again.

V. The Revelation

Now silence blooms where thunder fell,

its petals made of ash and rain.

I stand within their silver spell

and feel the world made whole again.

The shadow does not flee the flame—

it folds within, a mirrored glow.

I speak my long-forgotten name,

and hear the deep reply below.

The Wellspring stirs; its waters climb,

bright pulse of root and breath and rhyme.

Through every wound the light now flows,

through every loss, the garden grows.

I am the daughter, dusk and dawn,

the veil between now thread and gone.

No longer two, I stand complete—

shadow and light beneath my feet.