Defiance of the Sun
Defiance of the Sun narrative-poem stories
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limhkayes
limhkayes https://soundcloud.com/kimi-haodha
Autoplay OFF   •   9 months ago
I dedicate this poem to all the night owls out there trying to live in a world build for early birds.

Defiance of the Sun

The story goes that they stood tall in the proud blue sky

not a cloud to mar our finest warriors' crisp and clean uniforms,

standing at the edge of civilization,

the feathers of their eagle mounts were smooth as stone.

One by one the warriors took their saddles and headed toward the enemy

across the open sunny fields lapping at the edges of

the dark, dense, and foreboding shadow

of the North Forest.

Behind those watching on the wall,

came cries for comrades to wait

from the lips of a disheveled rider

dragging her dozing owl as much as she could;

its feathers were chaotic in the struggle,

its grey eyes watering against the obtrusive sun above.

Owl and rider were said to have been met with tides of dirty stares

as their very existence ruined the mythical and heroic moment

which our ancestors were all certain poets would retell for centuries.

Screams from battle broke the silence and

eagle after eagle fell from the sky,

the echoes of shells and bullets accompanied the dying cries of our civilization's finest.

Disgust and hatred and dismissal were pelted at she, that lazy coward,

who was too tardy to die proudly in a glorious pitched battle in the sun.

Her owl was cursed and scolded by his rider, it is said,

until she fell asleep in tearful shame against his messy feathers.

Perhaps this is poetic license, but the legend goes

that her owl would not let its reputation be muddied by the foolishness

of an open-field battle in the bright sun.

The owl snatched his sleeping rider,

and dragged her into the black and moonless night.

Forests, you see,

with no lakes or ponds or streams are to eagles

storming emerald seas with no fish

but to an owl

hungry for prey and his rider's pride

a dark forest is a banquet worthy of goddesses and queens.

Our poets have sung for centuries of that owl's returning silhouette against

rising tides of fire from the North horizon while bullets and shells cracked like thunder,

too slow to catch the lightning bolts zipping across the sky.

The owl, it is said, took his place on civilization's wall

and hooted loud enough to wake the dead.

He hurled at the feet of those who dismissed him as worthless and lazy

a massive pellet which held the

bones and hair and golden crown of the rival king.

The bleary-eyed populace, woken from deep sleep,

collectively came to the realization that the long war was finally won

not by the abidance by, but

by the defiance of the prideful sun.

(Thanks for reading!)

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