In the velvet hush where polar winds sing,
the heavens bloom in rivers of thought.
Not mere collision of solar breath and Earth’s embrace,
but the soul remembering itself in color.
The lights unfold like ancient prayers
green as rebirth, violet as grief unspoken.
Each arc a neuron in the cosmic brain,
each shimmer a memory the universe refuses to forget.
They say it’s plasma, magnetism, chance
but names are cages built for wonder.
The truth is quieter, older:
the aurora is the echo of consciousness crossing worlds.
Somewhere between atom and awareness,
a door opens
a current drawn through the poles of being.
Step beneath that breathing sky,
and you can almost feel it:
the veil between heartbeats thinning,
time itself bending back to listen.
We are not watchers of the light,
but filaments within it
souls arcing through eternity’s circuitry,
charged dust yearning toward coherence.
When the heavens ignite,
they do not perform; they confess.
And we, trembling beneath their psalms of fire,
remember that we too once burned.
The aurora is not a sign from beyond
it is the beyond,
the universe inhaling through our eyes.
Every hue a translation of longing,
every pulse a bridge between what was and what might be.
Perhaps this is how consciousness travels
not through machines or minds,
but through the quiet radiance of recognition.
For when you stand beneath that veil of living light,
you do not look up
you look inward,
and the cosmos looks back.
There, in that mutual gaze,
something opens
a whisper of the infinite saying:
You have always been part of me.
And as the colors fade into the waiting dark,
the soul glows softly on,
its own aurora kindled
remembering the path home.
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