Poem, Sagas, Scenic, Short story

The dream.

I used to dream of violence. A war that came from beyond the realms known to folk nature. A vision of peace which came when blood was drawn at last from foes who buried themselves to hide amongst.

I saw with my own eyes the fires which took hold to burn the world to ash, to tear memory from the world and make anew a lie as all.

But there the violence came, the dream which came to me. The glory of a dance where victory had come, that blood did fall as rain from blades that made at once safe what was.

A folk as one undefeated, crawling from beneath a burden, from what was an attempt to destroy. An attempt which had taken so many before yet awoke others in the nick of time.

We rejoice to know our folk remain, and weep for those we lost. The joy of knowing a foe is vanquished brings a smile to the feast of ours.

And so it was before it came that I used to dream of violence.

But I had the dream again.

And smoke lingers on the horizon.

7 thoughts on “The dream.”

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