Hear now a tale the elders keep,
when fires burn low and children sleep,
when wind goes thin on winter stone
and shadows reach for hearth and home.
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A hundred years, and more or less,
we held the world in steadiness.
The calendar would turn, and so
the faithful moon would rise and go.
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That final night of numbered cheer,
when old year died and new drew near,
the bells were warmed, the tables spread,
and bright names lived on every head.
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The streets wore ribbons, small and proud.
The songs rose easy from the crowd.
And up above, the sky was clear,
as if it never learned to fear.
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Then, softly first, as if in doubt,
the moon rose pale… and went right out
of all the laws that made it true.
It changed.
It took a stranger hue.
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Not sunrise-gold, not wedding flame,
but metal struck without a name;
a coin pressed hard on heaven's skin,
a silent oath, a warning's grin.
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Some laughed and pointed. Some grew still.
Dogs tucked their tails against the chill.
A mother, smiling, lost her breath
as if she'd heard the word for death.
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The fireworks climbed, then cracked too soon,
their colors thin beneath that moon.
The brightest bloom seemed small and shy,
ash drifting upward toward the sky.
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A hush went through the city square.
A taste of iron filled the air.
And then the earth began to speak
in groans too deep, in terms too bleak.
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The ground did not just shake in fright.
It shifted, set itself to right,
as though the land, long bound and tight,
had found the strength to stand and bite.
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Streets split like seams on old-worn cloth.
Walls leaned, then fell with broken oath.
A church-bell rang, then choked on dust.
A river rose because it must.
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Far off, where no one watched to know,
the coast stepped back from waves below.
Hills buckled, slid, and took new place,
and mountains lifted up their face.
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Maps turned to myths in one short hour.
And still that moon held steady power,
as if it weighed the world to see
what it could break, what it could be.
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Now listen close, for here begins
the part that steals the heart within.
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From cracks where lamplight could not reach,
from under stone and root and beach,
there came a movement, low and slow,
like something learning how to grow.
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A stag walked out with antlers wrong,
too many tines, too hard, too long.
It looked at men as if to say
your rules are gone. Now step away.
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A shadow crawled where shadows die,
and wore the shape of teeth and eye.
A thing like smoke took form and weight,
and waited patient by a gate.
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Some creatures howled. Some creatures spoke.
Some moved like thought in heavy cloak.
And when they fed, it was not meat,
but order ripped from every street.
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The guards raised rifles, pale with strain.
Their bullets fell like sudden rain
and did not stop what would not bleed,
what ran on hunger, not on need.
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A captain shouted, "Hold the line!"
His voice was brave. The night was fine
with taking brave things, one by one,
and leaving none beneath the golden one.
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Yet not all terror came from claws.
For men, too, changed beneath new laws.
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A boy, pressed hard by panic's hand,
sent light across the market stand.
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A woman, cornered in the crush,
bent iron bars as if they're rush.
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A soldier, trembling, felt a force
like living fire in bone and course,
and with one breath his body stood
too strong for fear, too sharp for blood.
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Power arrived, unasked, untrained,
a gift that cut where it was gained.
It saved a life, it took one too.
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It made the innocent feel new
and made the righteous pay a price
for miracles that come unwise.
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All night the golden moon remained,
and under it the world was flayed.
The cries grew hoarse. The sirens failed.
The prayers rose up, then thinned, then paled.
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At last, near dawn, the color slipped.
The coin of heaven slowly chipped
back into silver, mild and far,
as if it had not left a scar.
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The sun came up, and with its light
it found the ruin of the night.
Not just of brick and bridge and lane,
but something deeper, something plain.
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For what was broken could not mend.
This was no storm that simply ends.
The land had shifted. So had man.
So had the truth of every plan.
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We did what living always do
when living must continue through.
We gathered stone. We raised a wall.
We named safe places, one and all.
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We burned the bodies. Counted grain.
We learned new songs to hold back pain.
We wrote new laws. We formed new ranks.
We carved our fear in roads and banks.
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We marked the year by that one light,
the gold that made the world lose right.
And each New Year, when night grows thin,
when old prayers stir and bells begin,
the elders lift their eyes above
with less of wonder, less of love.
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They do not toast. They do not sing.
They check the gates. They tighten string
on bows and straps, and breathe as one,
and wait to see what gold has come.
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So keep this tale, and keep it well.
A moon can turn, and with it, hell.
The sky can smile in borrowed peace
and teach the earth that rules can cease.
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For once it rose, that golden sign,
and nothing since has felt like mine.
A century's gone, yet still we know
the moon remembers what we owe.