_I._ When the seventh summer burns the numbered book, and rivers forget the names their fathers gave, the black thread underneath the dying Oak will speak in tongues no fire can enslave. _II._ Beast of ash, born from the sky turned copper, will walk among the sundered and the starved — but lower down, unseen, the patient partner already mends what hunger has unmarked. _III._ Three suns will rise where only one had reigned: the true, the smoke-veiled, and the one of debt. The mycelial saint, unbaptized, unnamed, will drink the poison none have named as yet. _IV._ The tower falls that counted seed as gold. The merchant drowns in what he would not share. But root will find root in the dark and cold, and what were enemies will trade the rare. _V._ Not fire nor flood shall end what men began — the ending is a silence, slow, unspun. Yet listen: underneath the ruined plan, ten thousand small and lightless gods hum on. _VI._ When the last chronicler lays down her pen and calls the age of naming at its close, the fungus will not mourn the death of men — it never learned the difference, and it grows.