Beneath the hush of twilight’s breath,
Where hazel trees in silence swayed,
A goddess walked with steps like myth,
Her silver line in moonlight laid.
She wore the dusk like woven thread,
Her eyes aglow with ancient flame,
The stars bent low to kiss her head—
Each one a whisper of her name.
The pool was still, yet pulsing deep,
Where nine wise nuts had tumbled down,
And in its heart, the salmon slept,
A crownless king without a crown.
She cast her reach with sacred care,
A prayer stitched in every line,
The breeze held still, the night laid bare,
As fate entwined with hazel sign.
The salmon stirred—a shimmered rune,
Its scales like lore in liquid light,
It danced beneath the shining moon,
A keeper of the druids’ rite.
She did not speak, nor did she plead,
But sang a song no ear could hear,
A tune that only wisdom feeds,
And only gods and fish draw near.
It leapt—a flash of truth and fire,
The net embraced its ancient weight,
And in her grasp, the world entire
Fell quiet at the hand of fate.
She did not eat, but let it go,
Back to the pool, the myth, the stream—
For wisdom is not hers to own,
But hers to guard within the dream.