Coins, Pentacles, The suitor of stability and groundedness.
Grounded like the plants that spring forth from the raw earth, like the cleansing stream flows in the pasture as the shepard attempts to heard his sheep.
The heard counts itself and drifts into a rest with no end.
His pasture, his cane, he takes me to the lake,
to look out at the water.
Only to discover a drowned sheep, lead astray by the false tranquility of the sea.
The shepard stares at the waves the waterlogged sheep was trapped underneath, and understands.
The Shepard dries off the sopping lamb with the fruits of his labor.
Swords want to conquer, to break in the untamable mare, its blade yearns for a wielder, for victory.
The blade's metal is molten, soon to be cooled by the calm waters of the cup as moonlight gleams off the hilt.
Within the grotto's hidden dirt pathway, the sword bends, piercing the heart of it's holder, but blood never was spilt.
It whispers of the eminent dangers, lurking just beyond the brush.
Wands, Rods, Batons.
Each want to cast a spell, but are fearful of it's effects.
And sacred texts collect dust, their token of age, never to be read by another.
A thin layer of dust, is what cleaves the truth.
Cups. Empty? Or full?
The liquid held within finds a momentary stillness so soon to be interrupted by the thirsty mouths of beggars, but the cup refills.
The copper forged within a kiln of fire and chaos, only to be treated as mear iron by all except the poor that drink from it.
The enchanted cup comes with a single proverb, a warning, which is engraved within it's metallic surface.
"To ye who's lips caress thyn skin, What thee take out wilt beest putteth back in, if ye life is what thee truly cherish, then replenish what thee take or thyn shalt surely perish."
The coins gingle as copper meets gold, the sword sharpens against the cup as the hilt and handle hold no company, the cups waters polish the birch, that in turn will one day give birth to the wands of the future.
But without the cups grasp the coins have no place to be held, without the cups fine sheen the sword becomes dull and chipped, and without the nurturing waters the cup provides and the birch withers and dies.
This is the truth: The cup holds and sharpens and waters.
By never at once
As the Coins, Sword and Wands feel more content,
The cup is fearful that it will never filled. Fearful of being reforged, being repurposed, again.
But the cup refuses to be contorted into a shape that fits their desires.
The disks want to be grasped.
The swords want to sharpen.
The wands want to be watered.
But the cup still yearns for the sea, an endless source of fulfilment and possibility, and with it, the future, far in the horizon.
