The Waters of Astarte

In the hollow of the desert’s breast, where shifting dunes conceal the past,

A pool of crystal light remains, untouched by time, untouched by man.

Its ripples sing with voices lost, a chorus spun from silver tongues,

Whispering secrets long submerged, of idols veiled in golden sand.

The weary come, their lips parched dry, their prayers like dust upon the wind.

They kneel before the glassy deep, where Astarte waits in silent hymn.

She stirs beneath the opal waves, her gaze like stars, her breath like fire.

And those who drink shall know her gift—a body cast in silk desire.

An adventurer, bold and blind, sought wisdom in forbidden streams,

Yet, in the water’s trembling eye, he glimpsed a face not born of dreams.

Not his, yet known, a visage fair, a form adorned in woven light,

A woman’s hands, a woman’s voice, a goddess born from fate’s delight.

No cry was raised, no step was fought, as flesh dissolved like autumn rain.

Astarte claimed what time had shaped, and shaped anew, with none to blame.

And now upon the shifting sands, a silken dancer, robed in dusk,

Wanders where the lost are made, where fate is drowned in waters just.

So heed this tale, O wandering soul, and mark the cost of beauty's gaze.

For those who drink from sacred springs may never wake to see the day.

The Waters of Astarte call, but gifts bestowed are never free.

Will you be dust upon the dunes… or dance upon eternity?

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