by Ava D. Dohn
“They gathered on this torrid plain,
To decide the fate of kingdoms’ kings.
To the sands of EremiaPikros, the nations did all come.
Hopes were high, for seeing better times,
For this could prove the counselors’ finest hour.
But on the darkness swirled cruel, chill winds,
Beckoning ill, and for Death to follow.
Thunders rolled, and mountains shook,
The heralds cried, “Be gone! Be gone!”
And the children fled from before the gods,
Who clashed their might with word and deed.
Until I, alone, am left remain,
Upon this field, upon this plain.
I guard the trust of this hostile stead,
Protecting these fields of barren sand.
Yes, I alone guard this wasted land.
The stone of Rhiannon into the sea was cast,
Sending a bloody torrent raging past.
Kingdoms fell and worlds crashed,
They asked for the victor’s crown at last.
And the maidens wept, and the mother mourned,
Waiting for their souls to be reborn.
To wait for that day, I am, I am.
But until…
Crumbling bones and rusting steel,
Lay here in patient ease,
Awaiting the day of their release.
Yes for the day,
When all the maidens fair will end their grief.
Then they will come…
…to bury me in lasting peace.”
(Author’s note: Written in the high tongue of the day, translation into today’s common speech does this poetic song gross injustice. I have attempted to remain true to the spirit of its meaning, thus leaving rhyme and melody to the vivid imagination. Such a sad truth, but it is so.)