Great Mnêmosynê, powerful Titaness,
you hold the lake that bears your name.
Many claim to know you, yet grasp only
at ephemeral echoes within themselves.
Your waters are a vessel reflecting Nyx
back upon herself — you hold stars so deep
within that they become abyssal, unending —
what was, what is, what has always been.
It unfolds shapeless, this image of time,
this totality of eternity in your gaze.
I taste your copper bitterness in prayer,
its traces of sweetness, and I know
the ebb and flow of this divine expanse.
Without dimension, it permeates all things.
Without opening our mouths, each knows
its scent, this nectar we always drink,
are yet drinking, as a white cypress
draws up from its roots in lamentation;
tethered down in matter, it seeks out
what is rained down to Earth from above.
I taste your copper bitterness in silence;
it coils around my tongue, the potential
ripping forth like lightning, fire, vastness —
the stories I have not yet thought through,
still trapped in the mazes of becoming.
Their shapes are there, lost in shadow.
To you belongs this meander through memory,
when past blurs to present and to future,
when the echo dissolves into the echoed —
the gift of words and language cannot
be gifted back to you, Unutterable One.
What is past, present, and future here
when you, Lady of Limitless Knowing,
gave birth to nine daughters from the one
who knows all things for all time — they
who dance to the lyre played by the god
whose prophecy hums in the soul like
the afterthought of a plucked string?
Hail, O Titaness, Child of Gê and Ouranos,
inventor of language, you of the bottomless
lake, O lady with your robe of bright stars.
Hail, Mnêmosynê, and be well disposed.