Of Warmth, Of Dragons
It was already cold at the end, as
the last dragon, pierced
by golden lances,
bellowed and died.
How could we
have known? The burning sun
was our warmth;
the dragons were a rot
in the land’s heart.
Bitter cold took us
like old age the body
and the snows kept falling.
Waters iced, the stars
froze in their cosmic wheeling
And the sun shrank like an eye
dimming in death.
Huddled now in our towers
of crystal
and stone, we wait
for it to close
forever, and we dream
Of fire, of warmth,
of dragons.
