The Ages

In the beginning, time divided itself into ages.

Sparkling mountains framed in gold.

The Golden Age holds its moulded rule,

Kept by Zeus who holds the tide,

Until it fades like a newborn into time.

From its ending rises the Silver Age.

Gentle, and free of grief to men,

Yet it knows the first fracture of unity,

Not betrayal, but the loss of innocence.

Then comes the Glass Age.

Alive with reflection, singing to itself.

Truth becomes shifting vision, never fixed.

Snowflakes crush the inner depth.

Depth opens into awareness.

From pressure rises the Bronze Age, shaped by struggle,

Where souls are formed through experience,

And mind is born from gathered colour.

Still the descent turns inward.

What is formed sinks into memory and matter,

Drawn toward what lies beneath all things.

The root begins to stir.

The Stone Age beneath all ages.

Where forgotten souls return to the page of being,

And the foundation of existence is revealed.

©️Lyia Meta

This work didn’t really begin when it was written down. It comes from much earlier... from a time when I was sixteen, and mythology, history, and imagination all seemed to exist in the same mental space. I didn’t separate things as clearly then as I do now. Stories, ideas, and reality often overlapped in ways I didn’t question.

I was reading a lot during that period, and certain texts stayed with me in ways that are hard to explain precisely. Not as facts or references, but as impressions.... voices, worlds, and emotional weight that lingered more than the details themselves.

Looking back, it all feels like it belonged to a phase of immersion, where I was inside stories more than I was observing them. That way of thinking naturally shaped how I wrote at the time.

So this poem comes from that earlier place. It has been edited since, not to change its origin, but to bring its form into clearer focus.

Note: The ages here are symbolic, not literal.