This hero Faldon

Who tore open the mountain,

And crushed dead

The Belgai

On dead shores,

The red tide

Swept stone ends

Muttering apart

Through rooted mangrove,

Through green reeds among seagrape.

Wizard’s work, the dying said

To no one in particular,

Floating with milky eyes seaward,

War songs ended, short

Not sweet.

Who crashed down chasms of murder,

Blind with dark glitter and stilled

With wooden corticals

Of vague power.

Faldon sang blood songs,

Impaled flaming widows,

Gnawed orphan bones,

And, slouching in monstrous skins

Played iron gongs in prayer.

Posted by Leif. View all posts by Leif
Monday, March 26th, 2012 1:44 pm
Categories: Issue 5.4, Poetry