Tis not an end. It is a birthing. And with that rending always there is pain, always the flood of waters, the passing of blood which so many fear. As eternal, the moment passed, agony will be erased in the blessedness of the event, blessedness of the new beginning.
You will come back to us, my sisters and I, the guardians again. We are four, we are one, and have been named as many things. Just as the four riders bring apocalypse, we bring a new dawn, rebirth.
My home is the waters, as siren, as spring nymph, as lyrical muse. My mountain counterpart is our poet, while she of the woods our music makes. Our sister who abides in the clouds and the rains heralds history.
We seek not to destroy men, nor lead them to their ruin. They would have you fear us, the horsemen. Yes, we have lead those of ill intent to their demise, but it is always a demise by their own deeds. Love is no destroyer. To touch us is to touch the very cycle of blood in your veins, that small reflection of the very cycle of life waters on the planet. A just man’s encounter with any of us, will send him back to his world vastly improved. Ours is a gift without jealousy or pettiness, one of mother, lover and child entwined. Love begets love, and once held in the heart of the Earth itself, its waters, its skies, its growing things, one can only tread his path tenderly for the rest of days.
I shall not convince the misconceptions of centuries with mere words. The times may do so for me.
The riders have grown strong again, and their reign is at hand. There is much to fear, but those who have ears to hear know this: This too is a cycle. This a cycle than can be won they way it is ever, only won: With love and trust in your innermost voices.
Heed history, create it with epic stories, move into the future with wisdom in your music and songs. Trust our voices within you, all our muses. It is the fourth note become that rings the three in a chord, and the fourth note of words is truth. It is the parts unspoken, the notes left unplayed that bring resolution.
Go to the woods, your mountains, or my waters, wherever your kindred spirit lies and remember to look to the skies and heed the winds. When the hard times come, come to us, in the purest of places with purest of hearts. Trust the herbs to heal pestilence, the clean waters to put out the fires, the mountains and woods to shelter you from the bloodshed and wars. Go to high ground and be wary the winds. Keep an eye in what comes in them, and seek shelter from what may fall from those skies. In the end, the same wind shall lift mists from my waters and rinse all things clean again.
Speak and sing these into being, as we do. Of love, of cherish, of devotion, of faithfulness, of service, of truth, of beauty, and above all of unity.
Hear the songs of eternal youth sung by we of the ages. It will drown out the sounds of those lead by the horsemen to their own demise. From their awful ashes, our seeds will transform beauty.
Be of the elementals, not of man. Come, little ones with open arms and open hearts. It may be an hour, a day, a week or a year, these tribulations, but this too shall pass. Come to us, an you will rejoin a new world of men reborn.
It is a reincarnation needed. A sorting if you will, to better times, as each has always been.
Four compass points, four muses, four nymphs, four elements, four ages, and forever the line joining them a circle.
We have long been forgotten on the circle back to renewal, but here I remain. When next you touch the waters, I will be waiting for you, laughing, singing, dancing, waiting to replenish and renew you with my sensual spirit, in a love of the eternity.
You will come back to us. The pain will pass, the Earth herself reborn.
Perhaps this will be the time, the prophesied time when you shant forget us again.
The Last Birth.