Feathers like molten dusk,
its crown glows with the last light of every storm.
Perched upon roots of twilight,
it watches the border between dream and waking —
a guardian of the threshold where thought becomes sound.
Those who meet its gaze feel their questions smolder,
their certainties ash.
It answers only in sparks,
each one a riddle that flickers and is gone.
“The flame that sees is the flame that consumes.”
No library holds its words,
for it writes upon wind and silence alike.
The Maharajagar 