Writing by Michael Wu. Artwork by Yury Aleksanyan.
The first wild grass grows on silver feet
of child enchanted by mother’s tales,
smoke where fairies breathe.
Tread, tread and mark of the boy
leads past the grove into trees.
Young, the warlock, swallows the honey
and hills deserted of yellow wheat.
And the seasons mock him
follow him to the home of unnamed rye.
Like infant, the years lie to the sunken groves
old sparrow cries.
To where drawn knives,
and blades his father made in war,
now grown only half a heart,
only glass lungs, false blood.
Wed, wed each toes to sand,
and mourn her to the burning sea.
Her memory rests in the meadowsweet,
gray faces buries in banshee screams.
And midnights loom the orphan,
lone in darkness weaves,
gold woe he in pouring tides
left hairs twisted inside.
Lamps quiver the seeker of hidden gates,
calm hand the scales.
Fire feeds on yet three darker straits,
Like sisters, dare shaken the sword
old dragon flies.
Treasure in these hells is
where eyes find, innocent fear
graves the consigned, to fiery leap
Dread, dread, one travels here,
lost sings the caverns into sleep.