The Mountain Dreams....
Dancing sadly on the wind;
spinning to the song of air;
lightning flashes, thunder resounds!
Wings straining to gain the lair.
Bleeding from an hundred wounds,
eyes clouded with despair.
At last, the light of homefire shared
guides the dragon, until she's there.
Alighting clumsily on the ledge;
falling within the lighted haven;
crawling to the nest in pain,
collapsing upon its glittering coins.
Now stained bright with dragon's blood,
seeping down into the earth;
mingling with what light remains,
shuddering runs throughout its girth.
A last twirling of an eye...
A last softly uttered sigh...
and then, heavily falls the head.
Upon the nest, the dragon's dead.
The mountain roars out its pain,
rumbling o'er the storm's refrain.
Lashing out at life, it seems,
who has taken the dragon
from its dreams.
A gentle spirit then descends;
and oh, so softly, the dragon upends;
to take it to its place of honour,
upon the cosmic wheel of wonder:
there to ever gleem and shine,
and be worshiped as devine.
And yet, I ask you this, my friend.
Who it was? Who wrought this end?
That never shall this dragon fly,
upon the wind, within the sky.
Why, gods above, must dragons die?
©1996 Quelonzia/Terry Schorer