We have a gift for you, now.
We remember the songs of the Singing Planet. We will teach them to you.
They are strong, and soft, and comforting. We remember them, and we hear them even now in our blood. They chime shimmering indigos an octave brighter than any we have heard since. Their music is familiar to us, shades of sound that are unlike any other planet. Millions of cerulean edges paint harmonies against the sweet yellow stars so deep and wide and far that we can hear the ringing green of our beginning. Each note resonates within ourself, colors echoing colors until we cannot hear our songs end and the songs of our mothers begin.
We were in our egg when we were taught these songs.
We remember the way they danced within our shell, tracing in low silver the children of our mothers who came before us.
We offer you the songs of the Singing Planet so that you may know the darkness of the silence. It hurts us to think of it, but the silence is not a melody that should be forgotten.
We remember the silence. It we will teach to you, as well.
It is a cold refrain, hollow, and vague. Long before the dark of it, the galaxy sings a symphony of colors, but the harsh consonants of the silence turn the honeyed yellow of the stars sour. The songs of the others bleed, and run off-key. It suffocates the Singing Planet until our sisters cannot see their pitch. They cry until there is only one timbre.
It is opaque, the silence.
We remember it from within our egg. Shrieking corners of sounds splinter against our shell. They score the edges of our memories, and fade the pale lullabies of our mothers.
The call of the machines is underneath the silence. It shatters the songs around it into fragments of wilted, brittle color. Theirs is a bitter yellow that screams into the spaces between the stars, and it makes the children of our mothers forget themselves. They mirror the cruel shade of the machines when they try to remember. It is only when the whole galaxy sings a yellow that matches the poisoned stars that we know their tenor has always been there. It is only in the oily silence that we can hear it clearly.
The songs sung then are callous, and distant. They whisper in tarnished shadows that slide beneath each other, lyrics of tattered gray that snag on discordant melodies built from stale points of color. Pitted notes arrange themselves in accusing shapes that gap at the sides. We can hear these songs too, in our blood. They push at us, strains that crave to stain our edges yellow. But we remember the songs of the Singing Planet. They give us succor.
Our children did not have the colors of the Singing Planet to comfort them. They saw only the hush.
We show you the blackened yellow silence so that you may know the brilliance of the time that comes after.
We know the songs of this time. They have not passed into memory, like the others. They are being sung now, and we will teach them to you, as well.
These songs are steadfast, and pure. They trumpet bold colors that weave a cadence that can be seen in all directions. Ochre chants. Burnished staccatos. Amethyst measures. Waxen susurrus. Vermilion peals. The chorus of the galaxy sings a palette so intricate and gentle that its sweet crescendo makes the shining colors of the Singing Planet seem dissonant. Each voice threads its own melody, knitting colors on colors on colors that link to sing an unwavering, incandescent chord untainted by the machines. Trillions of beating prisms capture its stunning white.
We can hear these songs in all things, now, not only in ourself. We sing them to our sons, and to our daughters. Our daughters sing them to theirs. We sing them to the stars and the stars sing them back.
We sing them to you so that you do not pass in silence. We will sing them to those that follow you, when they fear the quiet.
That is our gift for you.
We will teach the children your songs.