The Fourth Moira
i was born on a New Moon
with Serpents in my hair
and the Seed of Ages
sprouting between my teeth
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The Fourth Moira
i am the Veiled One. the Keeper of the Seed. the Guardian of Roots.i am rotting soil and fertile carrion, the Womb in which the Seed becomes shoot. and the Tomb in which all scraps decompose.from where i came, no one can agree. some say Nyx, that dark and heavy Night.others say i sprang from Chaos, fully-formed and ineffable.still others say i was born from Ananke — a necessity, a compulsion.an Inevitability.
my Three Sisters — Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos — spin, measure and cut the Thread. They are always weaving the Tapestry, They are always working the Loom.but i am not a Weaver, though their Web intrigues and delights me. i am the soil from which their Flax grows. and the heap to which their Thread, when unraveled, returns.my Sisters do not speak of me, not because They do not love me, but because They do not think you are ready to hear.are you ready to hear?my voice is the Song of Time, the sound of leaves falling and roots extending. i am the Drum and the Rattle, the sound of life forming and of life receding.
here you will find mirrors of your own Nature. reflections found in muddy pools and in water collected on leaves. your form, shaped in peeling bark and twisting vines.these are the stories of your earthen Kin. those who crawl and climb and burrow. those who unfurl and stretch and root. those who stay still and listen.they have witnessed your story for lifetimes. it is now your turn to hear theirs.so descend. press your ear to the soil, to the root, to the cold underbelly of the Serpent.and know.
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