[A brief poem, anonymously penned on a crumpled scrap of paper, looking decidedly out of place stuck into one of the great gilded volumes of poetry from Melehan's hoard. The writing is hasty, hurried-looking, nothing at all like the illuminated calligraphy of the volume it was found in. A dark reddish-brown spatter can be seen on one corner. Cuinn has teased it out carefully, smoothed it and pinned it above her writing-desk.]
Ever the digger of graves, not of furrows.
Ever the hand wielding the scythe,
or pressing the torch to the autumn chaff,
not the hand cupping the seedlings,
not the hand tucking them into moist loam.
Ever the black-wing'd buzzard
scouring the fields of carrion,
not the white-plumed dove heralding spring.
Am I not also needed?
Am I not also worthy of praise?
No bard will sing songs of my scythe
to hearty cheers before a tavern's fire.
No maiden will embroider my black wings
into her bridal gown.
Ever the voice singing to soothe the lame calf
before I draw my blade across its throat,
swiftly, mercifully,
not the voice singing lullaby
above my own babe's cradle.
No comments:
Post a Comment