Work Text:
The firebogs have sunk to sloughs of embers.
In the cooling murk a slow fog wanders
through the polished hives and gourd-mansions,
round the steps of the tower, and the doors that never opened.
Smoke rising from the smoldering branches
clouds the glass-green skies to darkness.
The shrines hang empty.
The peat foresaw this, and the earnest dirt,
and the rocks slumbering beneath.
The giants dreamed it long ago.
Over the plains of Kalavana the wind carries
the creak of bridges, and the smell of overripe gas.
Over the shores of Ortolana blows
the fragrance of allspice, tang of wild purple,
sweetness of yellow crumb run riot in abandoned gardens,
richness of mud and mildew.
Over the deeps of Inari the lanterns glimmer yet —
the fireflies remain, dreaming a post-apocalypse,
when we are food for crows.
angelnumbers Tue 23 Jun 2015 07:07PM UTC
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TrixieBastard Sat 21 Jan 2017 04:32AM UTC
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Guinevak Sat 21 Jan 2017 03:38PM UTC
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