Record 2521 – Intercepted out of Innaka II a few days after the attack by New Maquis.

Agents Note: I couldn’t quite bring myself to delete it, even if it is propaganda; I’ll leave it here until I have a better idea. 

It was spring when I last saw my love, white Isca blossoms caught in her raven hair.

They drifted on warm breezes, tumbling endlessly,a ballet of delicate white flowers, 

they danced carefree, as the love songs they accompanied through the air. 

Her lips tasted of Kanar, her hair the sweet scent of Molda root.

Her smile was kind, Her laugh infectious, Her love honest and true. 

 

We walked beneath a trellis made of branches, as we smiled and blushed,

the white barked Isca forming a twisted marital arch of living beams.

Planted by her Father with calloused hands, and scarred fingers,

long made rough from rebuilding Cardassian dreams.

It was once a tiny bulb, barely filling his palm, 

now it rose as high as the house, twisting its way through the grout,

the very life of Cardassia, forming the bones of our home. 

Part of us. Inextricable. Immovable. Immortal. 

 

Beneath the Timber skeleton we had uttered our sweet nothings, 

all dirty jokes and love touched whispers.

She had promised she would wait, I had promised I’d return.

And with the newly ancient Isca tree as witness,

we swore a timeless oath. 

 

She held my hand in hers, skin as gentle as Tholian silk.

And as her fingers danced across my nervous palm she laughed and laughed and laughed.

A kind response to a terrible joke, her melodic tones gave even the songbirds pause.

Who, nestled high in the branches, were pleased to fall silent,

as her delight echoed endlessly on the redstone cobbles. 

And, like the Isca tree, her laughter sunk into the fabric of our home. 

 

All my sorrows did melt away at the sound of her exultation.

Smoke filled dawns and a crying child, 

the wailing mother and weeping father,

the visions of legion dead, 

the endless scroll of those undiscovered.

 

A broken home, a broken world, all forgotten in her eyes. 

Rubble filled streets would fade from memory as her gaze washed over me. 

The lies of men and shapeless gods, of guls and kings and thinly veiled villains,

all amounted to nothing, as we stood beneath our Isca tree. 

 

But now that voice has fallen silent, bright white blossoms are now a cinder,

Looking back I see our silver boned witness, is now as distant as my love. 

 

Instead I make promises to the rifle in my hand,

that he will not gather dust upon the shelf. 

That he will not rest, that he will wait,

that he will not find himself wasted.

But my rifle does not taste like Kanar,

Nor is it perfumed by the Molda root.

It does not whisper of hopeful dreams,

it does not laugh at my ill-formed jokes.

 

It was spring when I last saw my love, and now I will never see her again.