There comes a hush with grumbling, rumbling sound—
Through skies, from highest clouds of charcoal gray,
While forest drapes like maiden's debut gown,
On swelling winds—a taste of dampened hay,
As jasmines shiver, full of haste and play,
The buttercups then blend in bluebell fields,
While parched earth, in thirst, to heavens pray,
The water lilies bloom, and lotus shield,  
While gardenia and tuberose nectar yield.

Those armored hermits peek above, so sly,
While wrigglers writhe from homes beneath the ground,
And quiet buzzards—silent shelters seek,
The red and tiny soldiers surround
Their hill before the floods come crashing down.
There goes the sun to hide behind the clouds,
Like shyest child behind her mother's gown.
The clouds eclipse the sky like mountain's shroud,
How I have waited long—for petrichor, thy crown!

The first then falls—so delicate this drop,
Like chiming choir of creation, its fall,
So, earth then sighs its prayer in backdrop.
Like divine dance of Lord from heaven's ball,
To fill the world as seraph's colours, fall.
The peacocks twirl in iridescent trance,
While swallows dive and egrets skim and roll.
Like scattered jewels, shooting down to prance,
The first of vernal rain bestows a second chance.

At drip-a-drop they form a symphony—
Like rolling sheets of highest paradise
Conjoined the deepest hells invisibly.
For once, then twice, and lastly falling thrice
In festive thrum of fervent drums, they rise.
Like sapphires falling down from onyx sheets
Of darkened skies, so measureless in price.
The merchant clouds to earthly rivers greet
And ply the blue and pearly wares from angel's fleet

Like clouds, the puddles spread across the land,
The sky's reflection cast upon the earth,
These puddles overflow as bubbling bands
And streams like argent ribbons, gurgling mirth
That stitch themselves from flash of thunder's lurch,
Like melting hymns upon the mount and vales,
And washing tales from stones about the dearth.
Then sleeping beasts so churn across the dales,
Like witches' inky cauldron full of silent wails.

The Dusty Road


The noble man, in filthy velvet vest
At trot and trot, a gallop, gallop quick,
With knee-high boots of softened doe, he wrests
His noble steed, through dusty trails and thick
Of wind, a torrent strong that sweeps and kicks.
The sun, a blazing ship on orange seas,
That casts a sheen on roads as seconds tick,
In lacy shirt, the rider rides through eve
As April's sultry heat and hazy breezes tease.

From neither holy angels nor the hells
Beneath the seas, a glass of water cold
For parched tongue and raspy thirst to quell;
It huffs and puffs, the stallion’s whines, and scolds
And halts. "No trot, without some water cold"
It rasps. No sugar cubes, no bag of groats
Will further tempt the horse from rightful toll;
He gets on foot to amble slow on boots,
A dingy town—an inn to rest and clean his coat.

The Road, a purple ribbon dark in dusk,
And off he sets, his weary foot in town,
His eyes a-twinkle, voice a honeyed husk,
Upon the inn, like jewel shooting down
To last of wooden, sticky chairs around,
Like butterfly, a ***** then flutters close,
And O! how beautiful, like seraph's crown,
Her glossy lips like rose in dewy throes,  
Her limpid gaze, a hazel brown, and skin like snow.

With dulcet voice a patient, languid tune,
"Aye, water, brandy, wine or moonshine cold?"
And mesmerizes him into senseless loon,
"My! anything my lady, something bold!"
While tracing thumb against the grain, he drolled,
She twitches behind, her waist a slender eight,
And whispers "Hush those wicked thoughts you hold
For Pa's a surly grump, like scalded cat"
"Dear lady, let me taste thy sighs, as heart elate."

She blushes red, like devil's brimstone spawn
And twists her long and fiery, raven braid,
And bites her lips like apples kissed in dawn,
"Oye Mary! quick o quick, we work a trade!"
She rushes inside, her gaze dismayed,
Like mountain spring, she lies for safety fast,
And brings a moonshine cold, and parchment frayed
"O, I will visit, if thy wish be cast
And trade away my maiden blood tonight at last."

Oh Angela, the careful Angela,
She sits and sews but notices them hide,
Oh, Angela the sweetly Angela,
"Oye Mary! quick o quick, we run a trade!"
To sweetest Mary loud, her gaze dismayed,
"Ah grandma, I do ask of travels bold—"
"Be silent dear, my eyes ain't gone a whit"
"But—" "Listen child or I shall whack your head"
"That boy does know of sweat, Ah, go my silly mads!"

"Ah, go and find a bed for silly boy"
Oh Mary's heart a thud, her eyes so wide,
"And here, some poppy draught in moonshine 'joy"
"Ah grandma....what ....but I.......haven't lied?"
Her grandma arched brows her high, "Not lied?
But I have known of passion, girls, and men"
And took a longer sip from flask and sighed
She took a parchment frayed—"so words him pen
But forget not to claim his heart in trade, amen."

So, Mary huffs and cuffs, and walks around,
Around and round and round in circles small,
"Ah, what to write?" like coil so tightly wound,
With questions big and small, for time she stalls,
"Oh sit! Be still! And I will write it all"
So comes the grumpy, gleaming, bright rescue
Which, Mary read and hotly stood appall,
And Mary spoke "You wicked lady, bless you!
Grandma mince your words a bit! I have a nephew!"

The man then eats a meat-pie piping hot,
He'd rode across and over highwaymen,
Upon the sweltry road at fierce a trot,
And dusty town and dingy tavern when
He met a butterfly beyond a ken.
He strolls beneath a lowly arched way,
Beneath the wooden beams that smell of hen
And drunks and dust and age, in room to lay,
Till tonight's midnight bell, and waited—long await

She comes as sworn like moonshine silent, soft,
And CLICK, the door unfurls like thunder strike,
In moonlit room a spectre pale, aloft,
"Ha, Pa'd a mug of moonshine poppy-spiked!"
She closed the door, she panted all alike,
A smile of mischief, proper goblin kind,
And pining stars with eyes, her balmy side,
Beneath the summer night the lovers twined,
From opal hells and heavens, all else they were blind.

Upon the gusts, and over casement wide,
Sonorous, loud her cries upon so rang,
And radiant her cries so sang like tide
Her skin so soft in sweat that tastes of tang,
Her pounding heart, a drum of fervent song
A thunder storm erupts upon the bed
She's marked beneath her roof by playful fang
"My darling Mary, down this path we head
Oh Mary, sweetest Mary! None shall bring thee dread"

Till dawn, the ostler heard this lovely song,
No hay upon his head would keep it far,
And on and on it went unbroken long,
His sleep was lost, disturbed by all that roar
Of sweetly Mary's scandalous so more,
The grumpy sleepless ostler fed no oats,
The one who made her rise and sigh like shore
And so the horse in hunger, stomped and groaned,
While lovers strong were lost and still so unashamed.

He rose with dawning sun, his body sore,
His chiselled chest in sweat so drenched wet,
He kissed the writhing sheets, she blinked and purred,
"Oh dear, you ride away, how not to fret?"
With ruby flourish, glowing crimson wet
He put upon her beating heart, at breast,
"A forest witch's this artifact beset
A part of mine so I have left thee chest
For I have wars to fight, await my 'turn dearest"

The man when slipping into shoes he thought,
This place was good to settle home and hearth,
To war unknown with fierce their battle hosts,
He had changed so much from night thenceforth,
No longer setting fire to skies and earth,
But once more reach her flaming heart alive,
For longest year and one he battled forth,
Where wounds he took did dim the ruby nigh,
But each of lovely dream that night’s, it brighter shined.

So, Mary waited long, for year and one,
The filthy road, that brought her shining knight
Through sultry noons and wintry moons and suns,
The Road, an orange banner bright in light,
The Road, an onyx ribbon dark in night,
For trot and neigh of stallion and whine,
In autumn morns and vernal dusks like sprite,
Awaiting laugh, for crimson ruby's shine,
Her dearest love's return would be their final twine

The ancient bardess strummed her wooden lute,
"So? Granny please, do continue the tale."
"The tale is done, so run along my newts."
And just then, tavern's kitchen called from veil,
"Oh dearest, please do get some salted kale"
The groaning bardess slowly popped her back
With ruby bright and softened boots of doe,
The cracked and softened boots of doe in deck,
The ancient man in kitchen asked, "Our story back?"

To know this story, you must know this place,
Of merry hills and fort and sandy wars
And men and children grown in war's embrace,
The vow that's sworn away from death's own doors.
 
In winter chill, on top of mighty hill,
There stood a fort in merry joy and woe,
With drowsy moonshine dreams of household full,
Unbidden zephyr gallops wild like doe.
 
In rocky vales of winter darkling skies,
Where divine angels dwell in olden oaks,
And dulcet scent of dampen mound disguise,
The salty, sadden sweat of gallant folks.
 
The ancient granite fort with arrow slits,
A blackwood drawbridge, over pond of death,
That hangs on iron chains above the pit.
With sentry guards in pair and swords in sheath.
 
On eaves ornate, the sparrows chirp and roast,
A secret promise whispered close to nest,
The chandeliers burn with merry boast,
And castle bustling whole, without a rest.
 
With mane of crimson hair like autumn leaves
Her eyes so green like forest canopy,
The skin, a bit of cypress brown, tea-leaves,
Her voice like ocean singing symphony.
 
Like draught of vintage buried cellar deep,
In lives the damsel beauty—Mary, bright,
Beloved and father war in ****** keep,
For either death would cast a shadow wide.
 
And down the rocky hill, and fort ornate,
Beneath the waning moon, in savage lands,
Where deer and tiger, fox and wolf await,
In seas beyond, a battle fought in sands.
 
Along the winding path to castle-fort,
Where cobblestones bear moss and bramble thorn,
And cracked by sedge from bygone summer's lot,
A knight-in-arms, an anguish pilgrim lone.
 
By scarlet hawthorn berries, bare on branch,
Through cawing haunts of crows on winter night,
His quiet breath in crescent moonlight, staunch,
A requiem for souls in silent light.
 
As owls so hoot and croon and huddle close,
The knight, in ****** armor ambles forth,
Beneath his heavy foot a flower goes,
Exhaustion trembles set in arms thenceforth.
 
His heart, a writhing throe like Christ in woe,
As winter’s lash cuts deep in frozen flow,
The haggard knight in sorrow bowed so low,
And feels the icy hail upon his face.
 
The crimson plume on helm is wet in rain,
And drips its scarlet shade in flowing rills,
Its scarlet bleeding down in winding pain,
By dripping blood to lie and rest on hills.
 
Yet onward still he treads, though burdened sore,
For heavy debt on heart like python coil,
Through storm and steel, through blood and ocean’s roar,
"How long can blood endure such weary toil?"
 
The heavens blaze alight in argent strikes,
The man wishing silver barbs to escape,
Atop the castle high, his love awaits,
Awaits her knight and father's sound escape.
 
He broods and broods on how to tell her why,
Of father's death, of arrow meant for me,
His mood weighed down like overcastened skies
Of sorrow, guilt and pain in final sigh.
 
To walls and towers girdle fort around;
With gardens blooming full of supple rills,
As rose and winter lily buds surround,
By forests many old as craggy hills.
 
His footsteps worth and measureless to man,
The rosary, a gift that burns his vest,
The joy to see his Mary stings like cane,
His tears in rain to hide, he tries his best.
 
"If fate were honest, I would lie in dust,
Her father climbing up with steady breath.
But fickle fates as always lay unjust,
And stole the steel away, along with death.
 
What words suffice? What solace can I give?
Her father’s blood still stains my hands and skin.
To bring her beads, yet lack the man who lived—
A gift so light, a loss so deep within."
 
The beads that weigh more than his iron shield,
He stumbles over mud and road in pain,
And nears the fortress, iron gates in sight,
As sentry hails the knight, away from rain.
 
Through casement high and triple arched ways,
With corners filled with cobwebs, dusty old,
The latticed rooms that's chill like silent caves,
While walls adorned with banners, stubborn mold.
 
She rushes forth, a shriek of joy released,
Like flower's ecstasy her eyes alight
But halts—his eyes, cast low, his lips now sealed,
And weeps with anguish soft, a broken sight.
 
"How could you vanish, leaving me adrift,
On far-off shores where worthless battle calls?
If not beside me where our vows would shift,
Then in the earth—at home—your body falls.
 
My heart aches, not yet numb in drowsy pain
My sense, as nightshade, hemlock I did drink,
Should empty opiates to dull the drain,
Of memories that Lethe-wards do sink?
 
Five summers passed, their golden warmth now fled,
Your voice and words to bring the warmth of hearth
The sixth arrives—yet where has laughter sped?
Like waters, gurgle soft from mountain-earth?"
 
"My Mary, my love, don't you waste away,
For I did bring much more than death in sum,
Through seas and storm, the deadly men and fray,
Oh, I did bring a final breath a hum."
 
And saying so, the knight on ground he kneeled,
Unclasped his breastplate, and dug out from vest,
The prayer beads from father's hands he peeled,
His blessings, warm and still, his tethered light.
 
"His Mary’s hands must hold what he did last,
So spoke the gallant man, with final breath,"
With broken voice, the knight then spoke aghast,
"He took the arrow meant to pierce my breast"
 
Then Mary clutches beads in hands her tight,
A silent memory of love now lost.
Upon her lips, a vow to set aright,
The woes of fathers bound as sandy ghosts.

Against the freeze, absent from bonfire night,
As even owls and sparrows huddle close,
And pull their feathers tight in winter's plight.
The bison amble; shake in icy throes.

The silent heavens, opal black at rest,
Beneath the moon, on winter's longest night,
Away from parts of town in merry fest,
Fluttering candle, quiet drink in sight.

In silent, sleepy town with slanted roofs
Behind the glass of ale, he drowns himself,
His frosty breath like pious censer poofs,
That rises heavens ward; away from help.

Awaiting midnight bell, he tightens wool,
And hears the dogs at moon and winter howl,
The slates, a creak, beneath the snowfall full,
As window carries gleeful hoots of owl.

Across from dwindling candle, shaky flame,
Like trembling hands, their skin so cracked and thin,
His restless eyes that slip in hiding shame
And soft his murmurs, whispers holy hymn.

In empty tavern, far from merry hearth,
He rises up the chair to fill his mug,
The keg as drips some ale, like tears from north,
Like twinkling butterfly, a languid song.

A dream so swirls before his open eyes,
About a lass, a moonlight pale her sight,
And deep like ocean, kohl adorns the eyes,
Her hair like raven feathers, dark like night.

He drinks the ale to warm his ancient bones
And choke his dream, and guilt in single stroke,
Like beadsman kept awake by sinner's don,
At midnight chime, he slips out, cold in cloak.

He gauges ice through half a pallid eye,
While thumbing beard and thirty beaded pearls,
And spies through wooden walls, a mother's sigh,
The icy mud through moonlight rainbow swirls.

Through dingy alley, smelling drunk and old,
He stumbles towards open graveyard gates,
To blooms of spring ornate in iron cold,
His dearest Margret's grave, in snow she waits.

Uneven cobblestones, they try to trip,
Between the headstones full of cracks and moss,
While frozen ice from weeping statues drip,
As wilted blossoms reek of mournful loss.

He walks among the silent weathered tombs,
And pulls the cloak to ward the bitter cold,
The ravens linger, grooming blackest plume,
Alone he treads, his footsteps lost and snowed.

The tender snow on hair like feather blow,
That hides in whites of ages bygone far,
With almost loving hands, he shifts the snow,
And lays the rose, carnation blooms like scars.

The marble angels, bright like cornice carved
And granite gargoyles, black of moonless nights,
From corners snarl and glare, for woe his starved,
As yew so looms on side like sentry knight.

Pretending not to share his gloom around,
He lays the softest kiss on Margret's stone,
The windless night, a shawl of stillness round,
To choke away his tears—like petals, blown.

"O Margret! thirty years have flown away,
Yet each and every breath has bled torment,
The sunlight lost its warmth, within a day,
Without your sight, the grace of moonlight's spent.

O Margret, I wasn't there, at your side,
Your last and final breath, without me slipped,
My Margret, I am sorry, I did hide,
For how was I to watch your light be nipped.

Dear Margret! hear my bones so creaky old,
My lovely lass, with sweet and argent heart,
Dear lady, I am weary, hurt and cold,
So, take me; give me warmth; my soul restart."

A wind then stirs and sings a song afar,
Without a word, his Margret hums a tune,
He listens long in quiet; eyes the star,
The one that shows him mercy, not too soon.

As dawn through deepest darkness rises up,
The ancient man, his head he lays to rest,
On Margret's tomb, a ghostly lap, on cusp,
And 'morrow, whisper men, "No beat at breast!"

The call to Weaver, woven long in song,
As eerie whispers creep across the vast,
Like Winter seeping into spine—so wrong—
To call our death as sure as summer past.

Like dying gasps of fire against the lamp,
The rattle born as crimson floods lungs,
Like final gasp that pops from silent swamp,
The rumbling ice, its crack a shrieking song.

Their names and deeds are deep in legend’s keep.,
They bear so many legendary names,
The many deeds, that take away the sleep
And each of Them a terror, dread, and shame.

The Ante-chambered Edge, the Cradled Cusp,
The Twisting Tide, the Daylight Eater, Night,
The Messenger, Collector, Dancing Gasp,
The Peeler, Seeker, Singer, Mangled Sight.

No ears have heard the Weaver’s breathless laugh,
Their shadow felt across no skin or wall,
Their writhing sigh to blow away the chaff,
A bursting heart that tastes like Weaver’s hall.

Like fickle mountain path on moonless night,
Or swimming far from shore in harvest moon.
Like walking tightened rope without a sight,
Or wail through nights in hinterlands alone.

Across unbound, who creep like spider crawls,  
Across the seconds, seeing all who stroll.

The Weaver hides in graven nightmares thick—
So thick to steal your breath, a gasp, a time.
As seconds tick They savor fear you reek;
Despair and death entwined within the chime.

As heavens pale to opal's dim repose
A leering eye on back from corner wall,
A drop slipping across the skin as noose,
But deep within, the creeping insects roll.

On pallid peaks, across the burning pyre,
Where earthen wounds let fires to flow and bleed,
In middle, winds about the ocean sire,
The water's oath to flame and ice, in pleads.

The furrow carved on ground and torn across,
Where tranquil river flows so named as Oath,
As clear as silent death, as emptied dross,
Here, order tends to burning solstice wroth.

Where banners mark the truce of blaze and ice,
Beyond the grasp of summer's peak, or frost,
Where Weaver's ledger old are kept in thrice,
To even out the debts of sunlight lost.

Like seven sins, the seven monks then split
From order, wielding river Oath betrayed,
From Oath's own bed they scooped the mud and slit
To build a tomb like Weaver's shackled shade.

On winter’s longest night beneath the moon,
When Weaver comes to play—and seeks the hide.
As seven, River Oath forsook and strayed,
A tomb thus built, and shadow ruby dyed.

The craft of mud and silt, a fortress-tomb,
To hold the Unraveler, tight like drum,
While basted shut in salt, and blood from womb,
Thus wrath and curse of hundred weeping mums

So held by hymns to wind and blood and stone
And bone; the wind to test their honor far,
The bone and blood to sins by pain atone,
And stone to bind them all till end of war.

At winter solstice night, beneath the moon,
The ether trembles, writhing up the fate,
But Weaver loves the Oath's unbroken tune,
The tomb, the fortress—none can bar its gate.

The monks thus understood their folly vast,
No hope to beat the horror monks unmasked
No man or beast had seen the Weaver's cast,
For none do leave the Weaver's sight once asked.

On summer solstice, debt in day repaid,
Then Weaver sings—and steals away the sick.
As seven monks from bone their flesh have shed,
The tomb is melted into mists They lick.

A shriek. A gasp. A cry; no silent death,
The flower; hall; in horror all abreath.

Like blooming lotus They unravel flesh,
The bones then meld in facsimile of tomb,
Their final breath to wrought a squall and clash,
To screaming cries of wights in terror sob.

So, quickly run and run afar and wide,
Amuse the Weaver, make Them laugh aloud,
For when They catch you, end has come aslide,
The gaze then falls on seven sons of blood

The Weaver likes the children youngest most,
To seek the hide is gleeful so much more,
Like parchment thin, in ancient annals lost,
For shrill their screams that never cease to bore.

So, children, call for Weaver not in jest,
For They may stir beneath your bed from rest.

The slash of ashen rain and snap of rime
That bite through rind to grind the brittle bones.
The rising glare of sun, like chorus hymn,
That bakes the bones like smelting sands to stones.
 
The shifting sand of dunes, in haze of heat,
Like knotting mighty serpents into weave.
The blinding fog of night that stumps the feet,
Like patient hunter-wolves that just won't leave.
 
A drop of water’s worth beyond all wealth—
For what is coin to do when death does come?
The blowing wind that scours the flesh in health
And bones in death, in eerie tunes ahum.
 
Here stands a mighty fort, a smothered husk,
On edge of water hole, with no relief,
Where dwell the monks with stitched eyes by dusk,
The punished souls, as haughty moonlight thief.
 
Within water once stood a forest great,
For water mirrored not desert but woods—
The Twilight Woods of sage and sights await,
A tug to moonlight threads on branching shoots
 
As heavens glow like amethyst alight,
And roses meld in lilies, hyacinth.
Amid the sparking, throbbing stars aflight
While ether hums a music praising Cynth.
 
No serpent slither, beasts to walk the ground,
No owls, or sparrows wild on wind and sky,
No chirping grasshoppers, to buzz around,
For only thrum of fate, a dance to fly.
 
To show the path where all the future lain—
A pebble’s cascade into landslide vast,
A poisoned ear that greatest king hath slain,
No cornered rats to not be bitten fast.
 
And showed the visions, great and small, on leaves,
As moonlight tangled into web from top
To roots and flowers, made as dazzling eaves—
A land of ever-twilight, dawn-lit stop.
 
The monks were tasked to care for forest all,
And walk the sacred paths of knowledge long
To stand at guard at desert fortress wall,
Unmask the seekers seeking sacred song.
 
A foundling monk, the order embraced came,
A seed of greed in heart his buried deep,
For decades, greed a secret kinship claim,
Until the abbot punished them a sweep.
 
The blacken kin in greed, a six and one,
And each a horse, a hubris ridden soul,
To cull the pride, the fare received by none;
And cook the meals for order sennight whole.
 
Yet yearning deep to partake woods, beseech,
The seven monks agreed to loathsome act,
In evening meals, a belladonna each,
And weeping, killed their brothers all by pact.
 
And burned their brothers all at pyre en masse,
From ash and salt, they wrought a box to steal,
A piece of moonlight lit from forest grass,
To partake forest's bounty, brought to heel.
 
From grass to moss, from fern to shrub so slight,
The silver threads unwound in glutton sweep.
The casket, carved of ash and salt so tight,
To cage the forest’s breath in grasping keep
 
But greed—O greed! —that clawed away at heart,
To hollow inside out and fill in dark.
For power strong and deep, but forest’s part
And drunk too deep from sealed in box of brack.
 
To take the heart to mute the sharpened mien;
The forest paths, a writhing labyrinth,
Like autumn wrath, the branches shorn of green,
And warping roots to undulating plinth.
 
The seething dusk, by night, had punished monks—
The future sight they lost much quicker still,
While mundane sight they lost in broken chunks,
As thousand paths of future broke their will.
 
Their each attempt became a thread on eyes.
They knelt at water hole and mercy plead,
Despair at silent water led to lies.
They wept and begged, howling rage, and bled.
 
Their bodies slowly broke with passing years,
And monks, for far too long, a death they yearned.
But death did seek them not, for grove had veered—
Their path of souls was stitched shut, they learned.
 
In horror saw their bodies slowly break,
Till only wights, their bound to chunks of bones
Remained. At last, the pond then stirred awake
And lapped away the wights as forest stones.
 
For many years, the forest broken stayed,
Became a death and dreadful trap for sane,
Recalled in all the lands as glade of frayed,
And known for blinded monks, their folly vain.
 
A pilgrim wandered seven seas and winds,
To seek a tiny spot of idyll piece,
He wore a robe, a dusty grey and pinned,
With sterner hide and kindly face so creased.
 
The pilgrim, far from shattered fortress, came
To seek and walk his future path ahead.
While searching Twilight Woods of renowned fame,
He found the way to fortress lost instead.
 
And found regret of monks before their end,
Who penned of truth, conceit, and folly vast.
The pilgrim found his path, as way his bend,
To right the wrong of past—a task so vast.
 
At night, in sleep he felt the forest weep,
And saw the nightmare, fury writ in sight,
The stench of rotting greed in stones so deep,
A promised idyll glade, a pact in night.
 
"But," argued he, " should not be task of mine,
My soul's fatigued, and all the marrow's drained,"
The forest plead, "Who, if not hands of thine?"
In soothing whispers, grave debate so waned 
 
In sort of wakeful dream, bemused he lay,
And popped his back to echo lingered pain,
Until poppied warmth of rest took away,
His nightmares each, a doubt and worry slain.
 
Compelled by duty, driven towards act,
A tepid doubt but, “If not me, then who?”
Thus, born in courage, set fulfilling pact—
He went away to fate and future woo.
 
With heart in mouth, he kept the moonlight safe
And limped to water hole at fortress edge.
To mend the wounds of centuries-full strife,
He dived in magic pond to shape a wedge.
 
To Bleak Weald, Dusk-Woods, Grove of Screeching Wights—
A land of many names and many routes.
While veiled in gloom and dusk, with looming heights,
It ****** at ashen tears through creeping roots.
 
The grasping claws of forests, seeking moon,
Would turn around at slightest sound to pierce
The hearts. For those who dare disturb are hewn
And strewn apart, to augur insights fierce.
 
A thousand cuts, a thousand deaths a breath—
The screeching wights, a chilling wreath in debt.
The pilgrim wove a tale immense in breadth,
For every year, a drop was bled to whet.
 
The pilgrim hastened into heart of woods
And stumbled fast through death, awaiting prey.
From satchel worn, returned the stolen goods
To woods betrayed—the moonlight, craved and prayed.
 
The claws that rose to heavens shivered once,
Then turned, unfurled, to twist and groan aloud.
The roots, then soaking moonlight inside since,
And vernal leaves regrew to eyes unshroud.
 
The blind and screeching wights were released free.
The pilgrim, honored yew-wrought walking staff.
The moonlight woven into web in glee,
And changes more to set his heart alaugh.
 
The pilgrim wandered out from sacred pond
And saw the fortress rise in glory full.
A year and one he spent to chisel song—
Of Twilight Woods, a warning meant to mull.
 
The jocund forest kept their faithful vow,
An orchard, berries, wooden-cottage small,
A gift of seven-furlong land to sow,
In heart of twilight—safe from rain and squall.
 
Thus, Bleak Weald, Dusk-Woods, Grove of Screeching Wights
Became the Twilight Woods of sage and sights.

The banal duty ends today at last,
And takes away the dreadful, bitter work,
For every hole, a copper snatched up fast,
And lash for every ledgered, slothful lurk.

Our lives have value less than rocks we dig,
While breads have worth beyond the lash on back.
The bridge of light we walk is thin as twig,
Belongings fit a tiny, jute-knit sack.

The sun we saw was less than murk we kissed,
And yet we're stained as if we've burned to crisp.
The moon we sought was less than silver wished,
And yet we cry when caught in crescent wisp.

The loathsome labor only ends at death;
Today's a joyous day for final breath.