The Nightjar and the Souljar

"Nai elen siluva lyenna, melme órenyallo."

"May a star shine upon you, from the love of my heart."

In the elder tongues, they say:

a soul split in sleep

will seek its twin across time—

not in light,

but in silence.

The stars remember.

The Earth records.

And the nightbirds…

carry what cannot be said.

The Nightjar and the Souljar

slumber on the hearth of twilight.

Their breath rises like mist

through the branches of time.

A silent shadow reaches out—

its fingers made of wind and ash,

brushing the lids

of sleeping souls.

Awake—awake!

The firmament trembles.

The veil between stars thins.

Cracks appear in the dome of night—

and sorrow pours through like rain.

Alone. Alone.

One blaze spins into the void,

a comet torn from its twin flame.

The Nightjar and the Souljar—

unbound by fate,

riven by fire.

Dawn bursts, raw and golden,

through the broken hush of dark.

The sleeper stirs.

Tears fall across the hours—

each drop a shard

of something once whole.

The river drinks them.

The stones remember.

The earth hums a low lament.

The Souljar mends—

not all at once,

but petal by petal,

like a moonflower

finding the moon again.

The hearth rekindles.

The sky bows low.

The roots stretch inward,

daughters of Yavanna,

seeking what was lost.

The Nightjar and the Souljar—

one still adrift in the void,

the other waiting

where time gathers light—

in the home she built

from the bones of stars,

and the breath

of twilight-sung wings.

Their song endures,

not ended,

not begun,

but carried

in the hush between worlds.