#donkeywrites

Let’s see you make a way where there is none -
says Fate;
Through ice, through storms, through iron, blood. It’s not
too late -
Settle down. Be a good boy. Let them have what they want
so much.
They might trample you last, and you’ll get gold
shackles -
It’s a good trade, worthy of Hanno, so
play nice.
Nobody likes a warmonger - don’t trust
your eyes,
Nor your ears. The wolves can be reasoned with. Just
obey,
And learn to call thralldom peace, like a well-
fed slave.
Losers get pity, at least. Fight - and you are the
villain,
Named traitor by traitors, cruel by those
who grind
Nations to dust. Is Qart Hadasht worth it? (Yes, it is.)
The winds
Change - any sailor will tell you. Those who
resist
Are salt, are ash, are crow dinner - they fall:
tragic.
Don’t court Aiskhylos. You never liked him anyway.
catch it -
The current. Guess it can take you somewhere;
who cares -
Well, besides you. Is victory worth eve-
rything?
An eye, sleepless nights, scars… say, where are your
brothers?
It all ends in poison. But Cannae still
thunders -
Laughter in inevitability’s
blank face,
Something greater even than Qart Hadasht
(It hurts,
That name.) You would still go to the ends of
the earth
For the idiots. Here is an ancient secret
I guessed:
You would still do it all over again.

Arrow-strait, arrow-swift,
Taut as a bowstring.
Goal: set,
Path: clear,
Obstacles must disappear.
Don’t wait,
Aim true -
This is where She makes the rules.
Loud, loud -
Make some noise:
Maids in chorus,
Baying hounds.
Bright shafts of moonlight,
Black stalking shades -
Howling, oh, howling,
Singing to Her:
Scream at the top of your lungs
What you wanted to whisper -
This is no time to be tame.
Unchained, unnamed -
All the wild things are having a blast.
Such a vast world free from man’s yoke -
Keep that shape-shifting cloak close around your shoulders.
Cold mountain summits and hidden lakes,
Where old spirits play -
Hey, don’t become prey:
Are those teeth just for show,
Are those legs naught but rust?
Might as well be. But that’s all we’ve got.
Still, all we do is run.
Surrender? Not yet. But
It’s too late to think mortal strength is enough.
She - glowing silver in darkness,
She - soothing shade at noon…
The wounded seek healing, the strong-limbed
Can’t help but wound.
Follow the greatest of she-bears,
Find Her in caves and among long grass,
In constellations, in road dust;
Further than the moon, closer than your skin,
Where no path can reach all tales begin.
Feet and soul - all bare,
Wrong place to be scared,
Right place to bark, screech and growl.
She - garbed in saffron and strength, and
Mysteries - She still smiles.
Wild Lady, Beastmistress, protect Your cubs!

Ah, regal one, brilliant one on high - 
Unchallenged, triumphant She shines.
Might unflinching, incinerating touch
Is too much for the base and the mortal.
Keep thoughts correct, actions right - go, ignite
A spark. Absence - cold, dark, lifeless
Cave. Her presence - a white flood, don’t you go blind:
A halo of blades sharp as all the ways
in which we fall short of the truth. That gaze -  
An arrow. Should She avert it,
How blessed would the blaze seem, the flame of Her rage!
Perish all things - treasure deathless remains.
Mirror named Mercy between the empress
And the world - a fragile whisper
Of reeds; just a seed reaching for majesty,
Chasing Her - like a red chrysanthemum -
Bright fan of petals unfurling, a heart’s
Stubborn pursuit of perfection:
The path itself is the goal. Great the distance
Between us and heaven - this harsh blessing
Is not a chasm - just a clear and calm sky,
Still waters where cicadas cry
And fireflies dance just for Her - ah, but one smile,
As She looks down on that greatest of rites.
Can we trust this bridge - feather-light, rock-hard -
Reaching across infinity?
Don’t shut your eyes. Find the middle ground, look up
To a gate ever just out of our reach.

- Why does the snake shed it’s skin? - the boy asks.
The father smiles. His light is a tight embrace,
His voice - shimmering harmony, golden balm:
- Which truth do you wish to know?
- As many as there are, - the child giggles.
- That is too much, my boy. Know your limits.
Then, He speaks of an ancient king who found eternity,
Yet lost it to a cunning serpent, so now
The rascals rejuvenate themselves, leaving their skins like garments.
Yes, there is a herb - but only the vipers know;

    
No, if you seek that secret - you shall only find mortality.
But all too often, children listen but fail to hear;
And so, the stubborn young man finds that flower,
Or - who knows? - it might be Medousa’s blood;
Either way, it’s a slippery, khtonic mystery.
Some would say he has little need of it - he is a
Peerless healer, with steady hands and mind like volcanic glass.
Still, there are times when only a miracle will suffice,
And Asklepios is a saver, a giver: how could he keep it all to himself?
He brings them back. He orders Thanatos to retreat
With the quiet confidence of one who has
Sunlight inside his veins. But his limits find him
When the Lord Below and the Lord Above agree that enough is enough,
And strike him down. “All things end” - the ash whispers;
The serpent slithers away with it’s strange magic.
The father rages: this murder, equally just and unjust,
Must be avenged: so avenge He does, and one tale leads to another.
But the son… oh, mortality is a harsh lesson,
But even this ends: He rises strong out of cold embers,
Like a red bird, as He did at His first birth.
Clothed in a skin immortal. Older, wiser but still
A healer. Still stubborn, with piercing eyes,
Too smart for His own good. Truths, understood too late,
Are silver hairs in His unruly mane. Pain and hopelessness run like rats
From the God. May His touch reach you. After all, some miracles
Are small enough to be allowed. Snakes have their ways.  

Child, so full of yourself, drunk on your own rebellion -
The caricature you call by His name is such a great target
For all the bile, bitterness, blame - oh, you could have done better!
No thrones, no scepters, no Gods, no masters - no justice
Aside from that of humanity is allowed. After all,
Who wouldn’t want to spit in a tyrant’s face?
Rage against… yet, you never learned to rage FOR.
Think you are strong? Turn around and meet the storm:
He is still that youth who rebelled against Kronos, you know.
It is never over - the Titanomakhy. They are here.
In all the things that unravel the Kosmos. In Hydra’s poison,
In broken oaths, in Lykaon’s feast, in the whispers of Ate,
In silence, enforced with sticks and stones, in bowed heads,
In words that taste like refined sugar, in heavy shackles
Binding the innocent. Seeping through every fissure
Beneath your feet - and high in the firmament. In the monsters
That seem so misunderstood when you read the stories
Written by those who knew they would never meet one.
In Typhon’s world-shaking, sky-twisting shrieks,
That brought the Gods to Their knees. All, but one. He stood tall,
He fought and He fell. Then, He rose again to bleed and prevail.
After all, who else? The father of Gods and men
Has no scapegoats. Only strong shoulders. His wounds will heal,
And sinews can be replaced. Such an easy thing to forget:
The Gods are not statues. Don’t count His battles. Don’t look for the scars.
Just know: even Atlas does not envy this burden. Something goes wrong?
Blame the boss. All goes well? Yes, we managed it all despite Him…
That laughter - thunderous, rumbling - rises above all the venom.
The balance of golden scales is in the hand that holds them;
Force and Zeal, Power and Victory - set those birds free.
Beneath His Aigis, all beings stand proud - and He smiles,
For the quarrelsome ones can’t tell their own reflection from His.