The Dammed | Poetry: A Celtic Tradition
As the heat and drought snatch away the melted snow, so the grave snatches away those within. The womb forgets them, the worm feeds upon them.
There are those who rebel against the light, who do not know its way or stay in its path. For all of them darkness is their morning; they make friends with the terrors of the dark. They are the foam on the surface of the water. Their portion of the land is cursed - none go into the vineyards.
Up through the old growth and mossy bottoms they reach for you with forethought of death - always in the black-light of darkness. The omnipotent language of death is on their lips; they’ll show you its shadow - burnt permanently into passageways and corridors - going through the countryside of sand and bones, or the countryside of smoke and fire.
Even now bodies stiffen and shrivel and join their army. A new-born child opens sentient eyes… an old woman is far away, shutting hers; dying.
02-02-01
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