21 November 2011


days and nights 
of wayward and circuitous roaming
impetuous visitations 
through town and land
leaving dizzying trails of violence 
and unkindly manners
as vehement as they were coarse
yet, in their final act of perambulation
the roving band circled a hill, 
limbs moving wildly 
furiously slicing through the soft evening air
shrill voices – and above – birds echoed
the secrets of the firmament
to heedless ears
until finally they came to a halt
gleamed the jewel
under the lucid blue moon
which, for a few breaths, 
ceased its cosmic drifting
rested and observed 
in illuminated affirmation, 
bandits and marauders, aging buccaneers
up the hill they went, toppling, tumbling
one over the other
racing, to be the first
to glean the ancient treasure, 
the archaic Tree, Lone-Cheilos,
bearing fruits of unfathomable reward
yet, little did they know, 
for night had fallen, and dark risen
speaking in devious tongues
Lone-Cheilos was no more
and a gaping fissure in its stead
frenzy ensued 
and they were swallowed
one by one,
what became of them
one can only surmise, 
yet, their restless wanderings
came to an end,
time was ripe
and the young peasant boy
pulled the trunk into the mill
shriveled from the hungry sun
and stood wavering
with sullen eyes
sunken boughs
as the great Tree pulverized
a vast plume for a moment
pursued the draft,
fell quietly to the ground
yet, branches grew, gathered
and offshoots emerged
along the margins of which
ran the ramifications
he could finally cling to,
the leaves of Lone-Cheilos
rushed forth
once more.

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