Heron’s Sin (pt. 2)

The pride of Heron yielded to the sway

Of  moment’s need. He felt the heat of sight–

Inhabitants of sky–upon him weigh.

But still persisted he in evil sleight

Of pulverizing air with beating flight–

With Swan, a sword demanding grip of kings,

And two tight clenched fists with bulk of might

To wield respectfully its graceful wing,

With bulk to swing its girth against inertia’s sling.


Not merely sword did heaven’s patrons view:

The pauldrons, cuirass, armlets, each apiece

Cast from the elements of Sky’s rare brew

And colored by the tempering fires cerise

That always burned in Sky’s horizon, east–

Another testament of Heron’s sin.

For on his vambrace, helmet, cuirass each,

A monument depicting winged man

Returning to their home, a place forever banned!


Conviction like the gods did thorough ride.

For from the ground, the friends of Heron’s son

On armored horse did sling destruction wide,

Since those who fell not from the horse’s tons

Were slain by flail or sword or mace, or spun

To see incoming jabs of spear or axe

Thrown perfect, straight, no chance to be outrun.

And all the while came ceaseless flowing stacks

Of pelting, burning bolts and arrows aimed at backs.


Then Heron saw the men of horse ride proud

And thanked the heavens for his tribe’s relief,

And also begged forgiveness for a vow,

The price to live with heaven’s Sky in peace:

To never take to flight, not even least.

Against son, sin far worse, so live he could

With heaven’s lasting wrath, those enemies,

To fend against them all, eternal good

If only sorrow’s depth for dear son, understood!




A crew of fighting men withstanding flack

Retained formation, wall of shields’ display

With hills of heaping bodies at their backs–

A blockade from the help of cavalry,

A thousand strong, pressed fast toward the way

Of center front, a forward charge to glean.

The sun beat down, and desperate cries purveyed

Their anger, overflowing from such scenes,

So, struck they, running quick to tribe’s ravine.


The craggy meadow’s village, hidden home,

Where rolling hills and ridges like a robe

Of many layers guard reposed dome,

Disturbed by only river’s washing ode

As one repeating Wind’s so-cherished goad

To saturate the hills, still flurries fraught

With echos of its answers. Now the road

To swarm with vermin, brood malefic plot:

“Go! Sow with gall, and reap with devastation’s blot!”

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