The fire burns again in the mountains,
Consuming tree, charring land.
Animals flee its tempestuous march;
The stillness of the hills erupts into
Roar and shriek,
Wail and crackle.
“What have we done to deserve this?”
The people plainly ask.
“Have we not given the gods
What they ask of us;
Their daily tithe of
Grain and grouse,
Mead and mutton?
“The gods heed us not,
No matter how we listen!
Their ways remain lost to us
And we remain a lost peoples,
Struggling amongst the shattered timbers of our homes.”
They say that in the East
A child was born in the otherworld,
Hanging like dew in the mist
Between the real and the dream.
She speaks of the gods’ wills
And their plans for the people.