A Lament of Promised Promise
—for István, who remembers
Beneath a chapel roof long torn,
Where saints lay cracked and ceilings mourn,
Where ash had kissed the sacred floor,
And vows were whispered nevermore—
He sat alone. No sword. No flame.
No voice to cry the monster’s name.
Only silence. Only dust.
Only bones too tired to trust.
Above him hung the Trimoon high,
Three silver ghosts adrift in sky,
A sign, they say, of solemn fate:
A promise you recall too late.
And O, he knew that tale too well.
He bore its weight. He heard its knell.
A boy once swore beneath this dome,
That monsters die and good comes home.
He meant it then. His soul was steel.
His rage so pure, it almost healed.
His blade was sharp, his will was fire,
He thought that faith alone was pyre.
He sought the beast with holy hand,
He crossed through all bloody lands.
And when they met, he saw him plain:
The vampire dressed in human name.
He drove the sword. He gave the prayer.
He tasted smoke upon the air.
He watched the blood pour black and wide—
But the beast did not fall, instead he lied.
He lived.
He smiled.
And István breathed.
The hunter failed, but death reprieved.
He staggered back on bloodied track,
A holy wound across his back.
“Why didn’t I?” he asked the night.
His voice too soft to stir the light.
“Why didn’t justice find its place?
Why must I look him in the face?”
He knows the answer. Knows it too well.
The monster rose where angels fell.
And in his eyes, no wrath remains—
Just ash that once was burning pain.
It would be easier, if he still burned.
If hatred lit the path he turned.
But now his grief is quiet, deep—
Wound doesn’t bleed, and it just keeps.
And still the Trimoon watches on,
Three solemn stars for what is gone.
They mark the grave of younger things:
Of chapel bells and iron rings.
Of István kneeling, sword was in hand—
A warrior sworn to cleanse the land.
But now the chapel becomes a tomb,
And all that’s left: the Trimoon’s gloom.
He does not cry. He does not sleep.
His silence is the vow he keeps.
He failed. He lives. The price is paid.
A promise lost. A cross unmade.
Yet in the night, beneath the stones,
He speaks once more in shattered tones:
“Forgive me, Lord. I could not stay—
The blade grew dull. I lost the way.
I see him now in mortal guise,
And all that burned has turned to lies.”
He bows his head. He shuts his eyes.
And in that chapel where truth dies,
The moonlight cradles him like a lace—
A last caress upon his face.
So if you pass that ruined spire,
And feel no chill, no ghost, no fire—
Remember still the vow once prayed
By one who rose, but could not slay.
He lives. He walks. He cannot rest—
Not saint, nor knight, just one oppressed
By memory sharp, and justice blurred,
And promises he couldn’t word.
And overhead, three moons still burn—
Not for revenge. Not for return.
But for a boy who swore too late,
And lives beneath the weight of fate.
Forever caught between the flame—
And mercy that forgets his name.
#MPC5_FestivalofMoonlace
István stands where the wind carries the memory of steel and song,
clad in the garb of old Magyar blood,
he is less a man than an echo,
a silhouette drawn from centuries past.
In the hush between heartbeats, he resembles the ancient