THE POOL OF LIFE— (Lyrical prose series)

Like a shimmer,

a fleeting breath of light —

beyond the mountains that stretch

as far as the eye can see.

There lies a stillness,

a whisper between realms.

I glimpse it faintly —

a ripple upon the veil of time.

I breathe what has never been breathed,

walk the path carved by shadows and memory.

This body, this vessel,

moves toward something eternal.

And as the horizon bends,

a figure appears.

He raises his eyes slowly,

and the world tilts —

the air thick with the weight of forgotten stories.

Centuries spiral in his gaze.

He is no mortal,

but the keeper of crossings,

the guardian of what stirs beneath the world.

An outstretched hand,

a breath,

a whisper of wind wraps around me

before settling softly upon my being.

And there — just yonder —

a glow encircles a sacred tree.

Its leaves shimmer in hues of molten gold and storm-lit silver,

emerald veins pulsing with the heartbeat of the earth.

At its roots, the soil glows with embers of creation,

and its bark — deep obsidian, veined with light —

bears the scars of thunder’s touch.

And just as Zeus once hurled fire from the heavens

to awaken the sleeping stones,

so too does this tree awaken me.

The strength it bestows is my genesis,

my proclamation —

of an existence long foretold,

forged in fire and silence,

from the deepest caverns of the earth,

where worlds meet

to dream the destiny of man.

He speaks —

though his lips do not move —

and I hear every word.

And just like a child,

the ribbon of silence loosens.

Before me lies his gift,

offered without claim.

Like Pandora’s unbound vessel,

but born of light, not sorrow —

it releases not despair,

but freedom.

In that moment, the air trembles —

and the pool breathes.

From its depths rise whispers of creation,

the first songs, the last dreams.

All that has been sundered

finds its way back to wholeness.

And beyond it all,

the tree stands — watching, waiting —

its leaves murmuring the stories of other worlds.

We are one,

but we are none.

Fragments of a vast design,

woven into the breath of the cosmos.

Our voices are but whispers,

carried by the winds that wander across time —

bearing stories of creation,

of love and ruin,

of gods and mortals,

of all that was, and all that will ever be.

And still,

the pool shimmers.

And still,

the tree remembers.

Its light folds into the horizon,

And the wind carries its song

Beyond the edge of knowing.

From its roots,

New worlds stir —

And from its branches,

Old ones fall to rest.

The guardian turns once more to the pool,

And the ripples fade to silence.

All returns to breath,

To shadow,

To the shimmer that began it all.

And somewhere,

In the quiet between heartbeats,

Life begins again.

©️Lyia Meta

Image by WiX

Originally written in my late teens, this poem once stretched across three fullscap pages. Over time, I’ve shaped and refined it — yet its heart remains the same.