At the center of the cosmos dreaming,
A high dark castle lies.
And it is the center of all scheming,
And the deviser of all seeming,
And the target of all eyes.

The castle's name, in no tongue known,
Is Statha, and ever
It has reared there, made of charréd bone,
Or the remains of a goddess's throne-
Asleep, asleep forever.

Something lies there, some hidden power,
But what is it? None may know.
Some say it was the force that made flower
The universe, before which all others cower,
And which fell asleep long ago.

Some say it is a dark beast imprisoned
At Creation's dawn.
Some say it was a treasure that glistened
So tempting that to warnings no one listened,
And now those who strove are gone.

Some say the ending of worlds lies there,
In Statha wheeling round.
Some argue the beginning of all that is fair
And terrible, and would the universe tear-
That there its source is found.

But the truth is that no one under stars,
Or behind suns, knows the truth.
All know that Statha is both high and dark,
And has existed since Creation's spark,
Since universe's youth.

None know that in a high windowless tower
There lies a glittering seed.
Is it the egg of some terrible unborn power?
Is it a beauty not yet come to flower?
No one knows, indeed.

The seed glints, now gold, now red, now blue,
Never sending out
A single shoot or leaf the casing through.
But there is one thing in Statha that is true-
Someday the seed will sprout.