Waverly, Colorado 6:00 AM August 14, 2016,
Wonderful glory, and beer fumes till dawn, in a lean-to that looks upon fields like a lawn. For this is the kingdom, of barren red sun, the steppes of the front range of heaven. Those boys in their hidden tattoos, those knights that fight dragons, that no one has a clue. Says Bleda to brother Shen, “let’s dig a hole there, fill it with water, and trap us that bear. The one who took our sheep, lets skin him alive, let his hide cover our feet. All winter a song, truth praise to the maker, it will be so long. With snow upon the ground, nothing in Waverly will admit a sound. We’ll be swords in hiding, Huns without our bounds, and come spring we’ll be so tall. We’ll work in the fields, it won’t be so long, our bare backs turned over, making us strong”.
“Climb down that open well”, Pa says to Octar, “prime it, till water drills down to hell. The water brings us life, the Huns of Waverly, will drink to suffice, and all of these open fields, and we’ll plant grain to heaven, the rich soil we’ll till. And hail to the dawn, bring Shen and Bleda, our secrets withheld. We’re farmers or we’re ghost, higher than glory, lord of the host, and all that nature brings, we bring on back in triple our deed. In triple of our deed”.
Its legend or truth that lives on, ancestral lineage that turns over ground, and the Colorado sun, makes father and sons spiritually found. From time and places they trace. Footprints in consciousness of another place, when they brought the Roman down. Once warriors now farmers, they’ve traced what they’ve found. And when Attila their father says “go”, they jump to their feet, with seeds they do sew. For they can never die, even in death their spirits suffice, to conquer all that’s soil, for life’s in the dirt, when ashes do spill, when ashes do spill unto life’s great unknown. – – 08.14.2016 – דָּנִיֵּאל