Elegy of the Lower Plains

We would sing and chant
in times when no other effort would suffice,
and the sympathetic-gathering
offered no peace of mind.

A fragment of our voices travelled all around,
reaching the deep-running rivers underground
which writhed and wept
seeing the path our procession led,
subtly then making their way onto land
to gaze at the sky, seeking a friend.

But the Sun had already set, 
turning the cheek to all unrest,
and to its brethren back on land
which built this refuge for man.

The apathy fell in times quaint
when a charge of unbound flames 
ravaged the Sun,
which writhed and wept,
and grew accustomed to burns
on its surface and pain,
and of dismissal, 
by a band of ignorant lakes
that tunneled deeper with shame,
to save face, and nestle in caves.

And such was the day of doom,
for the sun, the procession, the rivers, 
and all things behind the eclipse,
where we’d jostled our abode:
past the woods, and a creek, 
and the Willow up a hill, 
past the town of the people 
that marched in communion;
condemned as much as us,
yet being above us, 
the shunned, and sub-human,
The course of the war set us away,
and robbed us of growing gray with age.