Cold Front

Story by Rob MacWolf on SoFurry

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#5 of poetry

This is the oldest thing I've written, at least that I'm ever letting anyone see.

There's some senses in which it's also the best I've ever written.


Grey mountains march at the edge of the sky.

Dark mountains glower through a narrowed eye.

From shadowed mountain vales comes a breeze long blest

And the wind rises silent from the dark northwest.

It rushes as it rises like a half-remembered hymn;

A hymn to sing at evensong when hope grows dim.

And the wind sings high and the wind sings low

And none of the windswept people know

How all of the wind died long ago

Yet still knows how to fly.

When grey mountains charged across the ramparts of the sky,

The wind sang a requiem the day it went to die.

The rainbands shattered into soft silver glass

For nothing the was could halt the wind or stay it in its pass.

The black mountains echoed the astonishment of gods

For the wind is as the seraphim, and never counts the odds.

The obsidian mansions shuddered as they felt nigh,

More dreadful than its fury, the rapture of the sky.

And the wind sweeps near and the wind sweeps far,

And none the mansions' lords there are

Can mark the day or place the hour

When the wind died at last.

The dark towers cowered as the blast went by

And the wind cried alleluia, the day it went to die.

Now grey mountains gather as the light grows old.

A breeze stirs thinly and waxes cold.

The obsidian peoples plume themselves that they need not the sky

And so the wind must come again, to teach them how to die.

The wind shall break their furnaces, and fling their wheels above.

The shall know not how to stop it. They know not its love.

And the wind blows life and the wind blows death.

And the dark wind cannot catch its breath

For peal of the bells wind mastereth

And it's own death-knell has tolled.

And the wind sends the non nobis to echo through the sky

Each eve aniversarial of the day it went to die.

The Holy Mountain of Vengeance

In the land of seven rivers, where the gates of death are builded, Stands a mountain (I can see it on the days when clouds are lifted) That is sacred to Odurum of the everlasting anger, (Who sets the forest blazing with his everlasting anger,) They...

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This Poem Is Haunted

This is the house that he built out of breath. That was his living. This is his death. These are his clothes, though he needs them no more. Those were his shoes, left outside the door. These are peeled grapes, but pretend they're his...

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I Ask Myself How Is It I Have Come

I ask myself, how is it I have come, Still so far from the sunset of my days, (I pray tis not yet sunset on my days) Unto some chamber in the maze of life Where it is possible to hear you say 'I miss you' and 'I feel your absence in The...

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