Beneath the first and formless sky,
Where suns were not, nor stars to die,
There lay the Mother, blessed Syl,
Whose breath bore bloom on barren hill.

Her heart was pure, her blood divine,
The chosen womb of Life’s first sign;
Yet bound she was by hands profane,
Her skin the cover, her bones the chain.

Upon her flesh, with Godblood quill,
The dead-speech carved, the runes of will;
Each sigil sang in tongues once heard
By elder gods, now dust and word.

Thus Yzotl, wretched, half-divine,
Took up her tome, her holy spine;
He turned its leaves of living hide,
And breathed in dread what Light defied.

With glyphs long lost to mortal ken,
He wove abominations then;
Flesh to flesh and bone to clay,
A mockery of dawn’s first day.

But though his hands could spark the vein,
And bid the void give pulse and pain,
The stream of life he could not bind,
Its river ran, yet not inclined.

A god who yearned, yet could not steer
The tide of being year to year;
Each cycle born, each cycle bled,
Each cycle crowned with Mother dead.

And when his tongue forgot the key,
When death-words turned to mystery,
Azapar rose with hollowed hand,
A lich that mocked both sky and land.

He stole the book, the screaming lore,
And cast Yzotl down once more;
The mad god wailed, bereft of throne,
Unmade by power not his own.

Still in the flesh-bound tome it sleeps,
The language lost, the secret keeps;
The mother dies, the cycles start,
As Yzotl claws for Life’s lost heart.