Sovereign of the Burning Sky

Before light learned to hold its perfect shape,
there was this crossing
a shadow unafraid of brilliance,
a form that did not ask permission
to exist within the sun.

The eagle does not chase radiance;
it claims it.
Wings carved from night
cut clean through gold,
until the light itself becomes adornment
a crown not given,
but remembered.

Beneath, the world burns in quiet reds,
above, the sky forgets its vastness,
pausing-just for a breath
to witness a presence
that does not belong to it.

This is not motion,
not the simple act of flight
but arrival.
A dominion written in silhouette and fire,
where even the sun stands still,
humbled before something
it cannot outshine,
cannot hold,
cannot name.

Object number

088.062