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Song of the Third Way
(Pdf can be found below.)
wo kingdoms lay side by side, their borders drawn not by rivers
or mountains but by ancient grievances.
Each believed the other a curse,
and for as long as anyone could remember, they had been at war.
Into this land wandered a bard named Selen,
carrying only a battered harp
and a voice like flowing water.
He sang not of kings or battles, but
of rain falling on roof tiles,
of a mother’s quiet breath as she rocked
a child to sleep,
of the single thread that binds every living heart.
Wherever he sang, children would gather, their faces luminous,
while
their parents listened from the shadows, afraid to hope.
One spring, both kingdoms heard of Selen and sent emissaries to claim
him.
The Northern general offered gold beyond imagining
if Selen
would compose a war hymn to stiffen his soldiers’ courage.
The
Southern general promised him a palace and servants
if he would create a
song to strike terror in enemy hearts.
Selen bowed to each in turn,
then vanished into the wilderness before either could bind him.
For months, no one knew where he had gone.
But deep in the valleys,
Selen visited small villages that lay beyond the reach of
armies.
There, in the dim light of cottages, he sang softly to the
children.
He taught them melodies that shimmered like moonlight on
water,
harmonies so tender they seemed to heal old wounds simply by
being heard.
The children learned quickly, passing the songs among
themselves
until they could weave them like garlands of wildflowers.
The war above raged on, ever more senseless.
Castles burned, borders
shifted, generals rose and fell.
Yet beneath this storm, something
unseen was taking root.
A farmer would hear his child humming
and
find his own bitterness melting away.
A soldier, home on leave, would
weep
to hear a melody he did not know he remembered.
The song
spread quietly, like seeds scattered on the wind.
Years passed. The war, like all wars, collapsed under its own
weight.
The last generals died with curses on their lips,
never
knowing why their armies had lost their taste for killing.
When the
smoke cleared, the two kingdoms lay in ruins —
leaderless, weary, and
strangely silent.
Then, from a hillside, a single voice began to sing.
Others joined,
timid at first, then stronger,
until the valleys rang with a music no
sword could silence.
The children Selen had taught were grown
now.
They gathered not to rebuild thrones or armies,
but to weave
a new harmony between once-divided lands.
In place of borders, they
planted orchards.
In place of war banners, they raised wind chimes to
catch the breeze.
As for Selen, no one could say where he had gone.
Some claimed he had
walked into the sea, carrying his harp.
Others swore they had seen
him among the singers,
smiling quietly before slipping away.
But
all agreed on this: his song had not ended.
It lived in them now, a
melody that refused to be silenced,
a promise carried from one heart to
another.
And whenever the world seemed ready to fall again into darkness,
a
child’s voice could still be heard —
singing.
—William Zeitler
2025 September 16
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