Lore, Poem, Scenic, Short story

Spirals.

In the darkness before I start to dream, I see it there before me.

The one becomes the three, the three become the one.

The spirals dancing on the limbs, what was, what is, what one day may become.

The sign about my neck it shows, as all wise men know, a world captured in one symbol, few others see beyond its shape.

Yet, as one becomes the three, and three becomes the one, the spirals dance for they are more.

They are the fabric of the world woven by fate in every moment.

For in every corner, in every rock and tree, in every kingdom, dynasty, in all things in between, in all things lesser and greater, where few but Gods can see the work, fate weaves in every moment, what was, is and will be.

What was will always be, even as history may record differently it not at all.

What is is only temporary, to change at the subtlest of winds.

What will be is only certain once the longest path is woven, and after it is experienced it will grow to be the past.

And by the time that future has come, it will be a long time ago.

And only the few who know of it will understand these words.

As one becomes three, and three become one, the threads of fate dance. For they know the world repeats itself, and the world is none the wiser.

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