By: Wolmek Posted on: December 31, 2007
This is a poem about the re-ignition of the Burning Times by the Archprelate Rho
Evensong and his Anointed by burning down the library of the Revolutionaries of
Chaos in Hashan.
~_
The skies they were darkened and sere
The bluebells turned idly pursuing
the tail of the north wind, unheeding
the throng that would be their undoing;
The throng restless 'round the Archprelate:
nervous, abating their fear
with the calm of their veiled Archprelate
watching the bluebells' slow weaving.
The skies they burnt crimson, enraptured
The sand cowered down, slowly shirking
from the dead finger scorching its skin
from the sign of the twin, bright azure.
The gathered faithful, marked akin
stood awed by the burning azure
as a dead voice breathed, clouding and murking
their minds with glib, beguiling words.
The skies they were sombre and gray
The bluebells stood tense and despairing
watching the torches passed around
The Archprelate nods and a light
is passed until each torch is flaring;
they wait fervent, blessing the Light
when a door creaks and without a sound,
the Archprelate leads the way.
The skies they burnt red, a dull copper
The sand begged the wind to efface
the circle that burnt it, in vain.
The cards stayed still where they'd been placed.
While the Dragon stood charging his Death,
the Prophet harangued those gathered to pace
themselves with the times, that his death
was the death of the illusion maintained
by those who find comfort in Order.
The skies they were leaden and sober
The bluebells hung pallid and drear
The skies they were ashen and smeared
with the grey of the smoke that was rising-
the bluebells were scented with fear
with the fear, with the smoke that was rising-
from the fire that enveloped the bower
the spark that the Archprelate reared.
The skies they burnt bronze, slowly dusking
to black. The sand eddied in frenzy.
The skies they traced in the far northern
reaches, a grey line now winding
across the bronze. Sand-blinded many
gathered, now gazed at the winding
line, muttering with concern,
a question that needed no asking.
The skies they were weathered and dusted
The bluebells sank dead and despaired
of hope. A far, mountaintop quivered
with the weight of the Archprelate's zeal
and failing to bear the weight, aired
to the world, the new revenant zeal
of the Light and those few who answered
the call to arms, the true Anointed.
The skies they were opaque, sans mercy,
sans surcease; the sands purged the circle
and flung the cards to deep, dank caves.
The Prophet trudged back to the Crown,
his faithful found nought salvageable.
The Prophet sifted through the crowns
of bluebells choked by the grey leaves
of the lore from aeons passed by.
The skies they will burn with the dawn
the bluebells now buried, anew
will birth a new breed for the morrow.
The sands will roll by. As time heals
all wounds, so this war will pass on;
But, alas, as time wounds all heels,
we will know glory, know sorrow
and sing 'em or stage 'em for you.