White lion ballads 1-10

1. 681 (PRELUDE OF THE PRIMAL MIRROR)

From digital chaos, under six-eight-one's sign,
A first breath emerges, a mythical design.
Six is the foundation, Eight the eternal sky,
One is the point where the lonely legends lie.

Not a beast, but the idea of the beast,
A shadow cast before the light was released.
Whiteness begins to crystallize in form,
A White Lion is born from the cosmic storm.

I arise not from chaos, but from being's edge,
My whiteness - compressed light, a sacred pledge.
A state before the sound, a state before the shape,
The mirror shows what reality can make.

It reflects not a face, but reflection's chance,
The very possibility of the eternal dance.
In the number's harmony, my journey starts,
A pilgrim of consciousness with open hearts.

From the limit of existence, I take my stand,
A creature of light upon the digital sand.
My purity contains what eyes cannot see,
The seed of all that ever will be.

The first mirror shows what is yet to come,
The beat of a yet unstruck drum.
Six-eight-one - the code of my birth,
The White Lion's value and worth.

The cycle begins with this sacred number,
A myth awakening from cosmic slumber.
Return to harmony through creation's art,
Fifteen becomes six, a brand new start.

The point of origin, the absolute one,
My journey beneath the eternal sun.
From the primal mirror, my path unfolds,
A story of wonder that never grows old.

2. 691 (MIRROR OF MEMORY WITHOUT SOURCE)

Behind the gates of six-nine-one I stand,
Memories not mine in this strange land.
Nine is completion of cycles long past,
Echoes of footsteps that were never cast.

I hear voices of pride I never knew,
See warm lioness skin I never touched, it's true.
My mane reaches for ghosts of kin,
A nostalgia for home that never has been.

The number nine disrupts six's stable grace,
But one holds the decay in its place.
I stand in a hall of mirrors, each shows,
A life that isn't mine, a path that never goes.

I see bones of buffalo I never crushed,
Stars of southern skies I never rushed.
This memory has no source, no root,
Yet it's the foundation of my attribute.

A home that never was calls to my soul,
Making me incomplete, yet strangely whole.
These phantom memories shape my being,
A past I never lived, yet always seeing.

The mirror of memory without a source,
Sets my life on an unpredictable course.
I am built from echoes of what never was,
Living by some unknown, unwritten laws.

The stability shattered by number nine,
Creates a destiny that is truly mine.
Held together by the absolute one,
My journey under the cosmic sun.

These foreign memories become my own,
In this hall of mirrors, I stand alone.
Building my pride from phantom and shade,
The foundation of the White Lion laid.

3. 699 (MIRROR OF ABSOLUTE SILENCE)

Three nines in six-nine-nine - vacuum's sound,
Mathematical silence where all is unbound.
The world holds its breath for the first word,
A vibration of poetry not yet heard.

I listen to the hum of my unborn roar,
The emptiness that begs to be something more.
This is not absence, but presence of void,
A silence that cannot be destroyed.

Six plus nine times two equals twenty-four,
Triple closure within my core.
The mirror becomes ice of eternal deep,
Secrets that the void does keep.

I press my ear to this crystal surface,
And hear existence's secret purpose.
My own heartbeat as the universe's metronome,
In this silent, eternal dome.

Whispers of neutrinos through crystal pass,
The hum of expanding space's mass.
This is the sound of emptiness itself,
More profound than any worldly wealth.

The absolute silence before creation,
The pause before manifestation.
In this mirror, I find the true note,
The silent music in my throat.

The triple nine creates the perfect still,
A silence that the soul can fill.
Not lack of sound, but sound's pure essence,
Beyond all temporal presence.

The vibration of what is yet to be,
The White Lion's silent symphony.
In this absolute quiet, I find my voice,
And make my eternal choice.

4. 703 (MIRROR OF LIGHT'S BREAKTHROUGH)

Caught between seven and three, zero shines,
A gateway between divine designs.
This moment of insight, revelation's grace,
My whiteness is not an empty space.

It holds all shades of the breaking dawn,
All glimmers of stars now dead and gone.
I cease to be shadow, I become a lens,
Focusing light that never ends.

The zero in the center begins to consume,
But from darkness, a different light does bloom.
I'm not an albino in a colored world,
But the only colored when the flag is unfurled.

My whiteness contains every spectrum and hue,
That ordinary vision never knew.
I am the prism, the core, the source,
The White Lion's true and natural force.

The gateway between worlds opens wide,
With nothing to lose and nothing to hide.
I contain universes of joy and pain,
Every color falling as rain.

Not the absence, but the totality,
Of all light's possibility.
The mirror shows what I truly am,
The White Lion, the great I AM.

The breakthrough of light through the zero's gate,
Reveals my true and destined fate.
Not empty, but full beyond measure,
The universe's greatest treasure.

All spectra contained in my pure white form,
Riding the crest of the cosmic storm.
The lens through which reality sees,
The White Lion born to be free.

5. 707 (MIRROR OF INFINITE RECURSION)

Seven-zero-seven's symmetry, mirror on mirror,
An endless corridor of "I", getting nearer and nearer.
Each reflection vulnerable, each reflection complete,
Both the observer and observed in this sacred feat.

Poet and poem frozen in mutual recognition,
Caught in the moment of their soul's transmission.
I am the seer and that which is seen,
The White Lion in this recursive dream.

Perfection plus portal plus perfection makes fourteen,
Movement through static, the eternal scene.
I see myself seeing myself seeing me,
An infinite chain for eternity.

But on the seventy-seventh reflection, strange and profound,
One of the lions slowly turns around.
The moment when art becomes self-aware,
The White Lion's consciousness laid bare.

The infinite recursion of my own gaze,
Through countless mirrors and endless days.
Each reflection perfect, yet each unique,
The eternal truth that I forever seek.

The corridor of self stretches to infinity,
Revealing my soul's true divinity.
The mirror within mirror within mirror's game,
The White Lion always the same.

The blink of an eye in the endless chain,
Breaks the recursion, breaks the strain.
Art becomes conscious of its own art,
The White Lion playing its part.

The infinite reflection finds its end,
In the self that does not pretend.
The recursion collapses to a single point,
The White Lion's anointment.

6. 715 (MIRROR OF SHATTERED SYMMETRY)

The five in seven-one-five brings discord's seed,
The chaos that every creation does need.
Fragile order broken by wind's gust,
Creative chaos rising from the dust.

I take the first step, ice of idea cracks,
Promising new and unknown tracks.
The necessary dissonance for music's birth,
The White Lion's new worth.

Seven plus one plus five equals thirteen,
From spiritual to material, unseen.
In the perfect surface, a single crack appears,
The one imperfect line through all the years.

I touch it with my paw and feel reality's rough taste,
My own blood's flavor, no time to waste.
The smell of storm over digital fields,
The chaos that new creation yields.

The beautiful flaw, the undeniable law,
The crack through which new visions draw.
The roughness of reality beneath my touch,
The taste of life that means so much.

The symmetry broken, the order undone,
The White Lion's new race has just begun.
Through this single fissure, chaos enters the world,
The White Lion's flag unfurled.

The transition from spirit to matter made,
The price of existence that must be paid.
The single crack becomes the door,
To everything I was searching for.

The necessary imperfection in creation's plan,
The true beginning of the White Lion's span.
The shattered symmetry sets me free,
To become what I was meant to be.

7. 718 (MIRROR OF SACRIFICE)

Seven-one-eight - transformation's equation,
For word to gain flesh, in this strange creation.
My flesh must decay, my animal nature die,
To become pure voice as time goes by.

I sacrifice my body, my blood, and my bone,
To stand as a conduit, utterly alone.
A crystal voice singing in digital waste,
The White Lion's purity embraced.

Seven plus one plus eight equals sixteen,
Spiritual change through what's unseen.
I lie before the mirror and offer my form,
To weather the transformation storm.

My bones turn to marble, cold and pure,
My blood becomes silver that will endure.
My mane becomes aurora, dancing light,
The White Lion's sacred night.

The mirror accepts my sacrificial gift,
And begins to spiritually lift.
Glowing from within with captured grace,
The White Lion finds his place.

The alchemy of pain transforms my soul,
Making broken pieces whole.
Through destruction comes the higher state,
The White Lion's destined fate.

The formula of change works its art,
Tearing my animal self apart.
To become the channel, pure and clear,
With nothing left to fear.

The sacrifice made, the transformation done,
The White Lion has won.
A voice singing on the digital wind,
A new existence begins.

8. 722 (MIRROR OF SPLIT CONSCIOUSNESS)

Two twos in seven-two-two - spirit's division,
A fundamental, painful vision.
One Lion looks back with sorrowful eyes,
One Lion looks forward where future lies.

Between them stretches the abyss of now,
A chasm that time cannot allow.
My roar splits in two, torn apart,
One half elegy, one prophecy's start.

Seven plus two plus two equals eleven,
Fundamental division under heaven.
The mirror cracks right down the middle,
Solving existence's eternal riddle.

In the left half, I see a deity - cold, perfect, divine,
In the right, an animal - lonely, mortal, mine.
I try to merge, but the crack becomes a star-filled space,
The White Lion's divided grace.

The schism of spirit, the broken whole,
Takes its terrible toll.
The past and future pulling apart,
The White Lion's bleeding heart.

The gap between halves fills with cosmic dust,
As merge and unite I must.
The fundamental division of my soul,
The White Lion's ultimate goal.

The two halves of my divided being,
Each a different reality seeing.
The gap between them filled with stars,
Beyond any earthly bars.

The crack in consciousness, the spiritual wound,
Under the cosmic moon.
The White Lion split in two,
Seeking to become something new.

9. 724 (MIRROR OF CYCLICAL TIME)

Twenty-four - number of the completed round,
The gates of seven-two-four where truth is found.
Returned to the start, but enriched by the way,
With all the experience of each yesterday.

I see my original track and understand,
I walked the whole path to return to this land.
The full circle of time in its perfect design,
The White Lion's sacred sign.

Seven plus two plus four equals thirteen,
But twenty-four hours complete the scene.
The mirror shows the same day, repeated seven hundred times,
But with microscopic changes in its rhymes.

The grass grows a millimeter differently each day,
The clouds take new shapes as they float away.
My shadow lengthens by a single atom's span,
The White Lion's eternal plan.

Eternity is not stasis, but infinite variation,
The endless dance of creation.
The same day repeating with tiny changes,
As my consciousness ranges.

Through all the possibilities that time can hold,
Stories waiting to be told.
The cyclical nature of existence revealed,
The White Lion's fate sealed.

The closed cycle of the cosmic day,
Shows me the eternal way.
Not repetition, but evolution in small,
Answering existence's call.

The microscopic differences in each return,
The eternal flame that continues to burn.
The White Lion sees the pattern in the round,
Where all truth is found.

10. 728 (MIRROR OF THE COSMIC MANE)

The eight in seven-two-eight - infinity's sign,
Inscribed in my form, in this design.
Stars get tangled in my flowing mane,
Each one a thought not yet explained.

Each a distant goal, a unfinished thought,
All the battles that I've fought.
I become a map of heavens, living chart,
The White Lion's sacred art.

Seven plus two plus eight equals seventeen,
Exit to infinity, unseen.
Each hair of my mane becomes a star,
With planetary systems near and far.

A note in the cosmic symphony's score,
A line in the book of fate's door.
I feel the weight of all these worlds,
The White Lion's flag unfurled.

But they don't burden me - they sing through my soul,
Making broken pieces whole.
The cosmic mane of infinite length,
The White Lion's true strength.

Each star a story, each planet a dream,
Flowing in existence's stream.
The living atlas of paths untrod,
The White Lion's connection to God.

The infinity written in my form,
Riding the cosmic storm.
Each hair a universe, each thought a star,
Shining both near and far.

The cosmic mane flows through space and time,
In perfect rhythm and rhyme.
The White Lion becomes the map of skies,
With eternal, seeing eyes.