It was after his death the stories started getting told.

how our village is not small / but vast, how we are made of light

When you go down to the sea you’ll understand

what it is to burn and drown

Sun is an evanescent being, hiding / behind distance, making themself small

Wither followed illness, and Winter stole her

But now it is peaceful here, roaming and listening.

She floats in rosewater playing il m’aime, il ne m’aime pas, remembers men

and how it felt when they watched her dance

everything sounds like the agony birthed by too much blood

People called him a wizard

but that is not how he saw himself.

I tell myself I am not a monster.

he lives among the stars, a charioteer of constellations.