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Academia Aetheris

(the celestial school of verse)

They came— not summoned, but stirred.

Poets born in the umbra of supernovae, 

dreaming in quatrains 

before they could form hands. 

Choristers of comet tails, 

scribes of auroras in decline.

Each carried a shimmer of that first interlude, 

the brief binding of Flame and Listening. 

Their lines bore it— a weightless gravity, 

a rhythm that bent space 

where metaphor meets memory.

No stone steps or lecture halls. 

Their classrooms: nebulae swirling in meter. 

Their blackboard: the inner rim of a pulsar. 

Their quills: filaments of starlight 

pulled from the tails of forgotten gods.

They gathered across galaxies— 

the Callisto elegists, the Mizar satirists, 

the binary-pair bards of Epsilon Eridani. 

None claimed supremacy, only inheritance— 

a lineage of luminous utterance 

seeded in the hush between pulse and question.

They charted the cosmos

not with instruments, 

but with enjambment. 

Sonnets stitched into solar flares. 
Odes orbited round dying dwarfs, 

grieving and glowing.

And always, they told the origin tale— 

not in full, never in full— but in glints: 

the muse who asked the fire to speak, 

the star who became stanza.

Their children write still. 
Each exhale a syllabus, 

each silence, a library.

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