Time stretched like acres of farmland
And the North star soon lost its twinkle.
The dews dropped like soaked balls of fluffy cotton,
The day was unproductive like the other.
The voice of the silent gods.
The mind is a jumbled heap of despair,
The cold ran its strange course along his body.
The night had finally lifted the veil
And the sun came pouring in
To fill the empty ‘sphere.
The mind played a trick on him.
Reality painted a mirage of hopeful colours;
A trail of smoke dancing in the gentle wind.
The village lies ahead,
Where the heart could find easily
But the feet’s flight slowed.
The gods have voiced a warning;
The earth thirst for sacred fluid,
A budding harvest must be quickly made.
The old trail’s end promised help
But the mind is aweary and must rest,
The feet won’t lessen it’s slow trudge onward,
Heart beating in rhythm with the echoes of the silent drums.
He was met by the procession;
The elderly matched to the shrine.
He hailed and they nailed;
A living carrion for the gods.
Home was southward,
Beyond the reach of the flowing river.
Mother’s tears flowed swifter than the river,
Father was just an ache in memory.
Aduke had put to bed
And birthed a whelp;
A young stallion with a lion’s mind,
A fond memory of his.
The gate opened to the chant of the restless gods,
Their wooden mouth scowled
And forehead creased with wisdom.
The dungeon became his home;
A less better abode than the six feet,
The prayer lingered on his lips;
That the sun may guide him home again.
The gods had decided
But he hasn’t,
The decision was made
And his wasn’t.
Seven market days onward;
The gods must feast on heart and blood,
The Queen must birth a fame,
The gods had spoken.
To be continued…