{"sf1_id":1695995,"sf2_id":"214WMbno","title":"Cold Front","author":"Rob MacWolf","words":332,"posted_at":"2021-03-15T22:22:00.000Z","tags":["Hymn","Poetry","lyric"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1695995-cold-front","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/214WMbno","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/34/8b/348bf007-e9c9-4410-8753-4dd12e7edb5f","description":"#5 of poetry\n\nThis is the oldest thing I've written, at least that I'm ever letting anyone see.\nThere's some senses in which it's also the best I've ever written.","content":"Grey mountains march at the edge of the sky.  \nDark mountains glower through a narrowed eye.  \nFrom shadowed mountain vales comes a breeze long blest  \nAnd the wind rises silent from the dark northwest.  \nIt rushes as it rises like a half-remembered hymn;  \nA hymn to sing at evensong when hope grows dim.  \nAnd the wind sings high and the wind sings low  \nAnd none of the windswept people know  \nHow all of the wind died long ago  \nYet still knows how to fly.  \nWhen grey mountains charged across the ramparts of the sky,  \nThe wind sang a requiem the day it went to die.\n\nThe rainbands shattered into soft silver glass  \nFor nothing the was could halt the wind or stay it in its pass.  \nThe black mountains echoed the astonishment of gods  \nFor the wind is as the seraphim, and never counts the odds.  \nThe obsidian mansions shuddered as they felt nigh,  \nMore dreadful than its fury, the rapture of the sky.  \nAnd the wind sweeps near and the wind sweeps far,  \nAnd none the mansions' lords there are  \nCan mark the day or place the hour  \nWhen the wind died at last.  \nThe dark towers cowered as the blast went by  \nAnd the wind cried alleluia, the day it went to die.\n\nNow grey mountains gather as the light grows old.  \nA breeze stirs thinly and waxes cold.  \nThe obsidian peoples plume themselves that they need not the sky  \nAnd so the wind must come again, to teach them how to die.  \nThe wind shall break their furnaces, and fling their wheels above.  \nThe shall know not how to stop it. They know not its love.  \nAnd the wind blows life and the wind blows death.  \nAnd the dark wind cannot catch its breath  \nFor peal of the bells wind mastereth  \nAnd it's own death-knell has tolled.  \nAnd the wind sends the non nobis to echo through the sky  \nEach eve aniversarial of the day it went to die.\n\n  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"poetry","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1695987-the-holy-mountain-of-vengeance.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1696231-mistolin-compassionate-to-the-bereaved-hear-me.json"}}