Beneath the dark-starred skies which lightning scathes,
Above a tumbled city roamed by wraiths,
The War God Gordash, Glutter of the Crows,
Cavorts on towers where the yew tree grows.
Now, after decades, speaking for the slain,
The Wisdom Goddess joins him in the rain:
“Enough bright halls and libraries have burned;
Relent, my brother, let the light return!”
And as he laughs and thunders out his “No!”
Her followers paint frescoes down below.
For decades more, he glories in his strife,
Till haunted by the Goddess of all Life:
“Oh brother, see you not the looming dearth
Of warriors, if death outweighs all birth?”
The God of War surveys the distant smoke
Of roving bands that slaughter village folk.
“Triumphant soldiers take their fill of wives,
Replenishing at will the well of lives!”
But all the while, her clerics leap and spin
In cryptic dances, wilder than the wind.
At length, the Bard God, smiling, comes to call.
“Long years have passed,” he says, “since Urd Thlol’s fall,
And much is lost, especially for you:
Your art needs peaceful times to be renewed.
Old frescoes hide the ways of large-scale war,
And dances still preserve lost martial lore.
Unless the chaos-flood is firmly blocked,
Your fighters soon will duel with clubs of rock.”
The War God, scowling, finally comprehends
And by his leave, at last, the Cairn Time ends.
