Keeper of Memories
(?)Community Member
- Posted: Thu, 26 May 2005 12:20:35 +0000
A thunder of paws
Ring in
A chorus of howls.
A sky of burning eyes
Leads to
A flash of tails.
Dayfire is burning
Black days are rising
The storm is coming
Rain Clan
Rain. The source of life plummeting to the earth in tiny droplets of microcosms. Also a source of despair and memories of the past that are best left buried under the piles of meaningless rubble within the mind. We are the creatures of this burden, summoning forth and announcing the oncoming storms. It is our mournful calls that warn all that rain is coming, that rain is falling. Our song is sung for the memories it brings, memories of those long lost ones, the fallen warriors of long ago.
I sing a song of sickmen
Calling to the future
Who turn their heads
And close their hearts
And answer with the past
Snow Clan
Snow. It burns the nose and burns the eyes and kills the senses just as quick as darkest dark. But it works well to stamp out the memories, numbing everything but the pure instincts buried deep within. It's in this vast, frozen place of death that we have freedom from everything. Untouched by humans - this place is inhospitable to them - and left alone by the memories that run our comrades to the dirt. Dream chasers, they are, running after their own tails as if they could catch them. Sensible, we are. We'll live through, we'll make it, we'll see the dawn of the next day.
They say the snow and rain
Were caused when they killed her.
That the tears of the Flower Maiden
Brought forth the life
And that within her existed
The memories of all the wolves.
And each drop of snow
Every piece of rain
Carries with it that precious gift
One memory from a wolf
Were caused when they killed her.
That the tears of the Flower Maiden
Brought forth the life
And that within her existed
The memories of all the wolves.
And each drop of snow
Every piece of rain
Carries with it that precious gift
One memory from a wolf
It is now more than one hundred years after the deaths of the four wolves who chased the flower maiden seeking paradise. Paradise is dead now, disappeared with the last traces of the Darcia family. The wolves are still heard in the mountains, screaming at the sight of the rain failling from the sky like the earth is crying for her dead. Thousands, millions perhaps, were killed to reach paradise. And in the end, no one made it.
Humans leave them be now. They're as likely to wipe themselves out as the humans are, and it's easier to worry about killing thy neighbor than hunting for one's death.
All that's left now are the ruins and the wastelands of snow. Humans take the ruins, the wastelands belong to the wolves. But there's always been the sense that one's watching the other, as if waiting for them to disappear, to give the chance for the other to survive.