MARTYR of the Sister’s keeping, the Tree in the Abyss seen under the blue working. In the reddening he stood at the lip of the void, the one burning thing above a gulf that kept its cold; here the gulf has risen at last, and he stands drowned to the crown in its color, his fire quenched to deep blue and the great emptiness gone pale as washed paper behind him. His office is to show what the abyss always intended: that the edge is a shore, and whatever keeps it is in time taken under. He holds his shape in the flood as he held it in the fire, for he was never made of either. The Sister does not burn her subjects; she sinks them, and what rises dried is blue.
The words above arrive with your print, pressed onto fine-art card.
