O you who were cast out,
not for sin, but for a light too ancient,
too wild to name,
we watched them call you mad,
watched them smother your fire in doctrine,
watched them drive you naked into the dusk,
no bread, no roof,
only the sky’s silence,
and the howl of forgotten gods.
Yet still,
you walked.
You walked the wilderness and found not death,
but power older than any church.
Through scorn and stone,
you drank from rivers of shadow.
You fed the crows with crust and memory.
You bled onto the roots of the world-tree,
and your tears stirred what slumbered deep.
Where Sovereignty lay in silence,
you wept, and She woke.
Feronia rose in the fern and flame.
Nyx opened her starless cloak.
The Morrigan sent crows to your side.
They crowned your feet,
kissed your hands,
and called you their own.
They had said:
“Let the forest claim the mad.”
But the roots remembered.
The wolves remembered.
The ravens sang their sacred song.
The rites older than empire stirred,
and the sky leaned down to listen
as your broken drumbeat echoed,
through the marrow of myth.
O sacred exile,
crowned not in gold but in dust,
in thorn and in mirror-shard,
you wore no laurel,
but the howl of every hunted soul,
still burning in the night.
You returned not to applause,
but to crows at your heels,
to gods in the groves whispering,
“This one is ours.”
O king of the broken line,
you came back nameless but true.
The firewood waits.
The bread is shared.
The shelter is made sacred,
by your breath alone.
The Phanes for the exiled.
And now, from the cracks in empire, they rise
the feral child marked by scars and stars,
the mad one who speaks in riddles of flame,
the vision-bearer no temple dared house,
the ulfhednar, oath-sworn not to crown
but to soul and Sovereign Wholeness.
The Koryos return, howling,
sons of twilight, daughters of storm,
the queer, the exiled, the wild-eyed ones
who remember the oath beneath language:
to serve the land, not the throne.
O you who wear no mask
but the light of shadow made whole,
this is our hymn.
We sing it in underpasses and wolf dens,
in queer shelters and ash-groves,
in mother tongues too old for empire.
bleeding and crowned by crows.
We sing,
because you lived.
We sing,
because you died and returned.
We sing,
because you remembered us,
when all the rest forgot.
We sing,
because Lucia Nyktelios is reborn.
You gather the court of outlaws and mystics,
but queerer, madder, mead wise, more real.
Return to the queer hearths, the wolf-children.
You are Ragnarök in soft, queer hands.
You are Eros of fire, of queer kinship.
You are the wild child raised by wolves,
Wolf of the Goddess, Carrier of Wolf-Light.
