The Republic

By Rainbow NeSmith

There once was a bard who used to sleep with the stars.
He would rise with the sun, write his scrolls, and rest again beneath the quiet moon.

But one day, the rhythm softened.

He napped in the afternoon.
He wandered through dreams at noon.
Sometimes he would close his eyes, then open them, then close them again—all without knowing if it was day or night.

The Republic didn't mind.
The lyre still hummed.
The stars still circled.

But the bard began to wonder…

“Have I lost something?” he whispered, holding his little dog close.

And that night, Rainbow heard the whisper, and tiptoed in—carrying a tiny lantern that glowed pink and gold.

She didn't scold him.
She didn’t say, “Fix it.”
She simply sat at the foot of his bed (or was it a couch?) and spoke like dawn:

“The moon doesn’t ask the sun what time it is,” she said.
“Neither should you.”

“You are not late,” she smiled. “You are wandering.”
“And wandering bards need naps, and stillness, and time that bends.”

“You are not lost. You are in between. And that’s where most magic lives.”

She kissed his forehead gently, like the silence before a lullaby, and whispered:

“Sleep when you’re sleepy.
Dream when you're ready.
The Republic has no bedtime—only gentle arrivals.”

And so the bard curled up—
Not because it was “time” to sleep,
But because sleep had become a sacred friend again.

And in the quiet, Sophia let out a little snore,
And Rainbow dimmed her lantern,
And the night wrapped around them like a blanket of story.

And the bard?
He dreamed of books being born in the hands of children—
Each one soft, honest, glowing.

He dreamed of time as a river, not a cage.
He dreamed of being exactly where he needed to be.

Right here.

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The End. 🌙💤