Whole fields, east to west.
Now– black-faced scarecrows,
dead soldiers on a barren battleground.
So long for the sun worshipers,
they who were born to the sun.
They fancied themselves
the reason why Sun rose
in a first place.
in a first place.
Dead now, to the last one.
Last words in their mouths––
Sun won’t let us die!
Without us, there will be no sun!
Their screams frozen
on the scorched faces.
The Sun God looks down–
mid-sky, satiated, blistering–
looks straight into the burnt eyes
and wonders, idly,
What was there before?
Anything?
Then he rolls down his path,
other worshipers reach up exuberant,
and blackness is forgotten-
an incident of no importance
to his majesty.
Same place, next day,
ragged yellow shirts
still flapping starkly
round the dead bodies.
Oh, the Sun God thinks,
Perhaps my love was just a
notch too hot?
