After

T'will all be washed, in afterglow, as any sheep...were washed of sin, the world anew, and bright...again, as if, the whole were newly made. The lord astride his ebon steed, atop his equine merkabah. Nor, shadow stray, the light of lights, about each thing...creator made.

The blood of millions, bless the gain, of all the trees...and meadow grass...the limbs, about the mortal plane, strewn, silent on a stony grave, the saving Grail, for most of them...a grace, though, few there were, believed; a boon, that they may build again...this ruined place.

Listing to the westernward, Tir na nog, where joy is heard, where fruiting trees and children are; nor ever end, their happier...eternity. This, other world, for they alone...are finished here, and have gone home to meet their gods, and family. How, in two realms, immortals are, the wizard wist'd wot was ill and, wot was not...and smiled.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: a wizard, google art