In the moonlit hush where the cedars sigh,
I drew the Esmerald Sword from the sky—
its blade a green flame, my heartbeat the chord,
every slash a vow the mountains once roared.
Sparks write your name across obsidian air,
ghosts of lost choirs tremble, silver and bare;
I lift the gleam higher, let the sorrow ignite,
and carve a new dawn from the marrow of night.