Monday, April 16, 2007

#358: April 16, 2007

Hid in the roots of that thunderstruck oak,
black with disease, pus boiling from his skin,
sits Sigur's toad--who for his namesake's sin
has crouched there since that dark day he awoke.

His fiery tongue, as fell as any dart
impregnated with venom, chokes his throat.
The earth grows rotten from his fetid bloat,
this cancer in the forest's living heart.

And there he'll squat, caked in poisonous mud
where weeds grow yellow and no creature dwells
(the stink of him keeps even flies at bay),
until a maiden born of Sigur's blood
can lift the curse (though how, no legend tells)--
and then, like ice, the beast will melt away.

No comments: