Hewi-Manod slips off her Ruby rings,
collected over time, given in earnest
in hopes of marriage proposal, no suitor
ever realising she was already with child
but not yet laden with drought and looks ahead
to the start of Dog Days and the spoils of war
that she will soon bring.
Whisper slowly, war is coming…
The blood courses through the two bodies with the eagerness
of a rattlesnake caught on drifting sands,
one eye on survival, one upon the gleaming future ahead
but an unseen third that sees
all and cowers behind the façade of glory
and understands that death, her own long lingering
demise starts on her first day alive.
The anger of this, the knowledge of Middle Age crushing invincibility
bothers and vexes,
infuriates and enrages Hewi-Manod
to the point where she relives the days in
which her former destructive self of Solmanath
conquered all before him, the ravaging and command
of nature’s spoils and white tainted air
enough to scatter those that dared
plan against his short temper.
Shush Hewi-Manod, you know that war is coming
Solmanath lives on despite being banished
from her soul, the beauty of the May Queen
and the resigned innocence
of the hag like figure of Hailag-Madod,
the December sleep, long forgotten, for now
as fire, heat and wrath stormed passion play their part
in bringing temperatures to boil.
The year is on its downward slope, it curves
towards its conclusion and Hewi-Manod feels the depression
that this causes as the Dark Knights encircles her Empire
and threaten to breach the one strong borders once more.
“I will not become Hailag-Madod” she cries in anguished fear,
the sound of her desperation clear and carries far beyond
the townsfolk gathering together by the dusty, seagull home, clock
that chimes not the hour but the month that passes.
The shrill voice of the damned chills them
even on the hottest day and they fear that such proclamation
will only cause her to become a tyrant like Solmanath
but in feminine form and bedecked with Rubies
rather the bones, the gumless teeth that hung
round his neck and which glistened
on the coldest day against the brightness of snow.
The August in Hewi-Manod,
the sister, the spectre, the keeper of her future soul
and the most war like of all twelve incarnations,
pricks up her ears and smiles,
“War is coming,
war is coming,
peace be damned,
war is coming”,
she utters and Hewi-Manod realises what she has let loose,
the box of Pandora creaks slightly and humanity is doomed
unless she controls her fury.
Lifting her hand to her stomach
she feels unborn January kick,
the following year must be born in peace
lest The May Queen never smiles upon the world again.
Ian D. Hall 2015