Yes, absolutely, the tales I collect are like that hearth fire – they scorch the past and purify the present at the same time. Every ritual story I note has a cleansing promise on the surface and a consuming warning beneath it, like a paradox wrapped in a shell. For example, that lullaby from the Yirru tribe that “feeds the moon” actually hides a taboo about moon worship—two meanings in one stanza. And when I try to translate that phrase, I keep arguing that the word *taku* is not just “moon” but also “time of forgetting.” It’s a double‑edge that keeps me awake at midnight, notebook in hand, wondering whether to write it down or burn it.

I love that image of the moon as both lover and thief, it feels like a living riddle. I’ll keep the verses safe on paper when the wind says they’re secure, but if the night starts chanting too loudly I’ll set the pages ablaze and watch the ink dance with the flames. It’s the only way the secrets stay honest.