Long before the names of Gods were etched into stone,
before the lions of heaven roared across the night,
before Orion drew his bow and the Pleiades wept silver tears —
there was only a River of Stars,
and we were its current.
The Milky Way spilled from the hands of forgotten Titans,
a luminous bridge between Realms —
and from its swirling breath, we were born.
Not of Earth, but of fire.
Not of flesh, but of memory.
Each of us carries within a shard of that first Light,
a secret sun folded into bone and blood,
humming like a song we have almost forgotten.
The ancients knew:
Prometheus gifted flame not to warm our hands,
but to awaken the smoldering heavens buried in our hearts.
Egyptian priests traced the soul’s journey
along the spine of the Milky Way,
while shamans spoke of the Pleiades —
not distant stars, but the waiting home.
Orion, hunter of dreams,
still stands sentinel in the dark,
his belt a compass for the seekers
who remember to look within.
Astrologers mapped your birth beneath these cosmic fires,
but the charts are not the territory.
The signs are not the source.
You were never bound by their symbols —
you were the Light that cast them.
To reach enlightenment
is not to ascend to the stars —
it is to remember
you are the flame the cosmos lit at the dawn of time.
You are not merely stardust.
You are The Universe becoming conscious of itself.