The Weaver of Stars

Story Awards

★★★★★

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Before the sun, before the moon's soft gleam,

When silence reigned, a vast and velvet dream,

Old Nyx, the Night, with fingers long and deep,

Began to stir from her eternal sleep.

No light existed, only shades profound,

No whispered word, no echo, and no sound.

From threads of shadow, spun from cosmic dust,

And whispers of a nascent, primal trust,

She wove the void, a tapestry so grand,

With patterns only she could understand.

Each knot a nascent galaxy to be,

Each loop a spiral for eternity.

Her loom was darkness, and her shuttle, thought,

The grand design her patient fingers wrought.

Then from her heart, a spark of longing grew,

A wish for something vibrant, bright, and new.

She pricked her finger on a sliver of despair,

And from the wound, a single tear fell there.

It did not fall, but hung, a diamond bright,

The first small star, a pinprick in the night.

And seeing it, Old Nyx began to hum,

A silent song, for ages yet to come.

With newfound joy, she gathered fading sighs,

The chilling breath where ancient sorrow lies,

And mixed them with the laughter of a dream,

A fleeting hope, a half-forgotten gleam.

These she then scattered, with a gentle hand,

Across the velvet canvas she had planned.

And so the stars, like silver seeds, were sown,

Each one a story, uniquely its own.

Thus Nyx, the Weaver, with her patient art,

Gave to the endless void a beating heart.

The firmament, with glittering hosts ablaze,

Still sings the silent song of ancient days.

And when you gaze upon the starlit dome,

Remember Nyx, who made the dark a home,

And from the deepest shadows, cool and vast,

Wove all the shining wonders meant to last.