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More pure, she said, than the snow upon the mountain.  More silver-white than the sun-sparkling water.  Like the light behind this door, she said, her luminous hand opening... And the silver-sun-wind swept through the tiny crack... There will be pain she said; the memory of your own words will cause pain.  Do not fear to look; the pain will turn to sweet ecstasy of the wind.  You are no more of the old words.   You have wounded yourself for the last time. Your shame is the knowledge of right and wrong.  You will form new words from the memory of this wind--and those not of the silver, shall die in the silver fire.

Words and Wind of Silver