 Be still. Be quiet. My little child. Rest your weary mind. Be still. And see. What will be, shall be. Watch my Lily, Watch my Clan, Feel my Stone, Moss and Fan. Shield the Sun, Its rays come through. A morning rain patters true. Somewhere a tree groans, And here it rests. Its branches new trunks, Its old trunks a new nest. I was born here, Eons before. Not this flesh, not this bone, But the soul it bore. Here. Remnants of the Old World The stories they once told, The threads they once wove, A torrent of rain now opening. As it unloads upon you To wash the dredge of humanity from your skin As I wax poetic, Faulty to the resounding roar. Deafening and silent, it is True. The First Law. The Only Law. I am here, long before and long after. I. Am. Here. Whispers from the Old Gods Before our constructs and our hubris. They will outlast us. As they should. As they will. And those that remain, Will return home. Their First Home. We are all Children Of The Wood.
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My nation is sick,
My brothers are dying, My student lies prone, Drowning. And instead I'm factoring your worth At a measure of six feet at a time, I warrant your voice, your name, your claim, If you thought to wear a mask in kind. No ma'am. You cannot approach me. Yes sir. I can hear you from here. To wander the trails Of the deep night, To visit my ents and my fairies, Then instinctively, immediately Pull my guard up from my neck Upon hearing others from long. Mask on and measure. Take note. And wait. Their gait. Their gaze. The indifferent haze. And I mark a stark Label. Vector. Infector. Enemy. |
Portugal. The Bard.I shout to the void, Archives
January 2022
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