Come Home

You were small and star‑quiet; I held you to the dawn. I set a doorlight on the sill Revan, come home when you’re gone. Strangers in robes read weather in your eyes; “He belongs to sky,” they said. I touched your hair and swallowed tide, and nodded through the dread. They took you to Dantooine’s stones; my hands stayed busy, still. I learned your steps from holonews; the kettle would not fill. Come home, Revan come home tonight. My doorlight burns against the war‑drum night. If the stars should ask you where to turn, Follow the lamp I left to burn. They said on Cathar’s shore, you raised a mask from blood and sand, And swore to end the iron hail that scoured every land. They called you Revanchist; you drew a thousand lives to stand; Your saber cut a path of mercy sharper than command. You chased the Mandalorians to the edge where shadows lay, And Malachor remembered you in broken‑green and gray. Come home, Revan come home tonight; The doorlight’s small, but it survives the blight. If the mass‑shadow drags you down, Follow my flame; it knows the ground. Whispers said a deeper night had taught you colder speech; You crossed beyond the mapped‑out stars, too far for me to reach. Then you returned in iron red, a friend beside your throne; His laughter, metal at the edges—Malak, hewn to bone. They spoke of a Star Forge birthing fleets from a wounded sun; They spoke your name like winter: Darth Revan, dreaded one. And then a fire from friendly guns; the bridge lit white and wild; A woman wove you back from death, and hid away the child. They say you woke without your name aboard a Republic ship; Somewhere on the holofeeds, our war became a blip. Come home, Revan come home tonight; Even if you cannot know me, the doorlight still is bright. Come home lay my breath upon the sill to guard your farther roam; If I sleep before you knock—the light will sing you home.