Depending on which Sister you ascend (or if you ascend yourself), a different poem is spoken during the ending.
“By suns that shine at midnight, we are blessed. Keen rays descend through mortared spires, the universe's races paced with fire, the nebulas, the stars, the voided depths, from Alpha Dog to Vega and to Beta, to Ursa Major and sad Pleotus... They cross the skies as sagely deities, creating planets like divine excreta. O dust of worlds, o pure holy swarm, I measured, checked, adapted, scaled, and formed, gave names to maps and specified the order, but starry horror will not let us go... It makes us call to foul, primal woe. When will we know the bliss of Laytah's water?”
“Our dream's meaning the Earth will never dash. When morning murmurs, melded in single chorus, and silken dawns dissolve before us, the fowl's scythe will then be burned to ash. The rippling gray will crush to diamond dust the regrets drowned in the silent ocean, our spirits liberated by devotion. The false sun's glitter will fade at last. We are neither stunned by midday desert splendor, nor to the jewels our will surrenders. No: We are dead, for golden coin's sake. Enrobed in silken moon rays, we are dressed. For suns that shine at midnight, we are blessed...and at the darkest hour, we are awake.”
“They're not alive, but neither are they dead. They're deaf to words, and their touch is senseless. They're blunt to smell, and their pain is endless. Their doom, unaltered by any event, is sealed in darkness. But lightgiver Femus bestows the blind with overwhelming awe in sight of God, and the concealed cave is turned to Christmas den by holy vortex, the primal night, who bore him in her womb. The offspring sent to her by Mise, her father, is carrying her gifts to fateful brother, the one by solar rage was entombed, who has become the toy of fateless play... Who is alive, and destined to be fey.”
"Entombed, he is destined to be fey, yet sun's hot bark is clear to his sight, from sepulcher that arises from midnight, he sees the land, wheat splayed in the rays. Mules approach, scythes crop, a flail beats the ear, rafts drift, beasts sleep, flitting birds make nests, and from his shroud's folds, he sees the fest of days and nights that spill into the years. Without joy, without tears and pain, he watches over humans' idle fates with no black thought, without asking why. Beyond existence, will, or any wish in knowing peace unknown to you or I... For to Earth, we are forever banished.”
“We hold life's transcendent pains apart, we bear grief and disappointment's fire,
But the banner is our sorrow's ire, fluttering in the winds of the departed.
We hold life's transcendent pains apart, we bear grief and disappointment's fire,
But the banner is our sorrow's ire, fluttering in the winds of the departed.
But the biting flames poison our spirit, singing spirits smothered by corpses, like Laocoon, tangled in knotted snakes, straining to break free, yet keeping silent. But no bliss will ever change this pain, the dignity of this restraint, the tension, this ecstasy of hopeless prison. For the balm of lifeless oblivion, we rain a grail of sorrows on the world, we exiles, wanderers, and poets...”
“We exiles, wanderers, and poets, who yearned to be, but failed to become. Where birds have nests, beasts, their lairs, our lot is a staff and beggar's hovel. The duty has failed. The promises are broken. The path, unwalked. And our doom is nigh. Dreams of such roads drowning in a sigh of songs unsung and poems never spoken.
In shards of will, it is so hard to find your own true self, so hard to confine the foolish pride, so hard to enter another's marquee, than to beg for bread... Hard for the vanguard's soul to render alive, that which never has been truly dead.”
“Those, to Earth, who are forever hurled, cannot enjoy the vastness of the fields, as time, each passing moment, yields the dancing shadows of other worlds. The soul sees the flicker, far and vague as on the surface of this ancient regret. One tried to read the holy alphabet, but lost the pattern in his own plague... And so he walks the dust of earthly sod, in apostate, a self-forgotten god, and in things familiar he seeks forbidden codes. His flesh, immortal, is shrouded in flames, and to him...even death does simply nod. Him, who saw the dreams, and knew the names.”
“The ones who saw the dreams and knew the names, who heard the grasses talking to each other...
Who learned the will of their ancient father and listened to the songs of tidal waves...
The ones whose souls have been purified, the ones harnessed to the pain of challenge...
Who lit the mystic candles on the fringe, who became a purer shade of darkest nights...
Who didn't squeeze their grape to sinful flass and didn't seek the joys of earthly leisure. Not in the priestess' dance nor in the pleasure...
But who descended into Hell's morass to meet their shadow at the very bottom.
They don't expect hearts with love to blossom.”
“Why don't I know the bliss of Laytah's waters? Why does my spirit cry into the night? It knows not the taste of burning spite, it pleads not to Satan's wily daughters. The circle is broken, and the chance, dispelled. While everyone is bathed in brilliant rays, rejoicing in the wine of passing days, we are drawn to lights beyond the blue sky's shell.
The rustling grass, the shimmer of the swamps, a lazy wind plays out a vain romp, and carries the shade of Persephone to Pleotus, who gazes through the dust... Yet my spirit has a sad mistrust...crying, as I contemplate antiquity.”
“A spirit cries, entangled by the weeds. They grew from seeds nourished by blackness. Their poison stuns. They bind in shackles, like horrors sealed in the pyramids. But neither fire-born marble nor granite can make a frame immune to the power of the flows of ageless primal lava that flows through our veins and fills us with might. The tomb of suns, the urn of dead world's ash... The corpse of moon and Saturn's lifeless flesh is set in mind and taken by the heart. In dying stars, life is born anew...but spirit's force is granted to a few, who hold life's transcendent pains apart.”
“We never heard again once we departed – the sinner's prayers sound in discord... An earthly god's communion is reward from priests in temples never started. The dreams of madness change our saviour, we are as bees abandoned by the hive... Like the men of fallen Troy we now strive, and flames predict the time of our failure. By breathing gusts, we're led into solution, long paths unfolding; roads we've never walked – we stroll in blindness as a herdless flock. Rolling thunder, earth and lighting fusion, exploding fires of doubt and disdain... Our dream's meaning, the world will never gain.”
“Above the rippling Surface waves, has grown a solemn, rocky highland built of bricks...
With chasms black and floods of crimson rocks, and boundaries woeful of the land unknown...
I see the dreams, so marvelously sad, the creaks of land so solid and encrusted...
Where wave and tide upon shores are busted, while singing by the mournful twilight's bed.
And canvas in the dark plies a quiet course, trembling with an ancient, mystic force...the force of wind and raspy, breathless ripple.
In ways of constant dare and righteous struggle, my boat is led along by shearing tumult...and skies are lit...with starry, shining sparkle.
- Many of the sister's poems seem to share specific phrases at their beginnings or endings. They may all need to be combined to form the entire poem. If you match the phrases, the chain looks something like: Nameless Sister, Ava, Uta, Echo, Aya, Eli, Ima, Una, Ire, Yani, Ole. (The Spirit doesn't seem to link in anywhere.)
- Reference found: Voloshin's Corona Australis http://oddolatry.net/blog/?p=14