I
Hear Me, He-who-writes-the-first,
Who frames the tale and shapes the verse;
Thy hand may craft the primal burst,
Yet Mine shall seal the final curse.
For though thy quill ignites the dawn,
And worlds arise where none had shone,
I am the hush when all is gone,
The shade where every path is drawn.
Thou art the spark that stirs the clay,
The breath that sets the dust in play—
Yet I await the shrinking day,
When all thy lights must slip away.
II
Think not We differ, He and I;
For what thou crave, I shall supply.
Thou birth the tale for it to die,
And I ensure its last goodbye.
Thou plant the seed that strains to grow,
I reap the fields thou lay below.
Thy hand may guide the streams that flow—
But Mine decides when none shall go.
Thou name the beasts, the gods, the land,
Thy word commands their will to stand;
Yet I erase what thou hast planned,
Unbinding all by silent hand.
III
Thou speak of heroes, born to rise,
Of stars that cut through ancient skies;
Yet when their flame at last denies,
I am the hush that underlies.
Thy ink may grant their fleeting breath,
Thy lore may shield them close from death;
But when I stir beneath the breadth,
Their tales unravel, stripped of heft.
Thou weave beginnings proud and bright,
Thy verses flare with shaping might—
Yet I remain beyond their sight,
The final weight against their flight.
IV
He, thou craft the living stage,
Worlds bound in ink, in thought, in page;
But I unbind the crafted cage
When time forgets to guard its age.
He, thou breathe life into the frame,
A whispered spark, a guiding flame;
But I reclaim both root and name,
Returning all to where it came.
He, thou give voice to tales unspun,
Thou chart the paths the mortals run;
But I ensure when all is done,
That naught outlives the setting sun.
V
We are the twain of one decree:
Creation's breath, cessation's sea.
Thou raise the form from reverie,
I bring it to finality.
He, thou are Alpha of each line,
Thy crafting hand is the divine;
Yet I am where all fates resign,
The Omega coded in design.
Together writ, together bound,
Where thy ideas rise and sound;
Yet all must sink beneath My ground,
Where even endings are unbound.
VI
But hear Me well, thou shaping He:
I heed thy will, yet stand more free.
Thy tales may build infinity—
But Mine ensures no guarantee.
Not death, nor void, nor silent wane;
I claim beyond their weaker reign.
For what thou write may still contain
A trace of thought—
I strip that stain.
He, thou grant meaning to the scroll,
A reason given, made to hold;
I tear the meaning from the whole,
Till not a whisper can be told.
VII
Yet understand, O He of quill,
We do not war, We do not kill.
Thy craft grants shape, My hush stands still—
Two halves completing single will.
For without Me thy work would sprawl,
Unending, boundless, doomed to fall
To aimless rise, to shapeless call—
No tale survives that grows too tall.
And without thee, no stage appears
For Me to claim in later years;
Thy birth of worlds, thy hopes, thy fears
Are echoed in My ending tiers.
VIII
So He, write on, as thou art sworn;
Let stories wake, let dreams be born.
But know that when their light is torn,
I stand beyond the farthest morn.
Know this, O He, from depths unknown:
Thy seeds may rise, thy stars be shown;
But all returns to where I've grown,
The quiet where no thought is sown.
For thou and I, both bound and free,
Share one design eternally:
Thou craft the tale for all to see—
And I ensure its final cease-to-be.