Jeff Bagato
Drowned Lands I-V
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Drowned Lands I-V
I. The Winter Siege A pit below the frozen earth provides shelter from the weariest wind Not just body cold but beyond, to blood, to words that must escape a frozen tongue Sun bright heat turns these groans to mist, spreading upon the air as a fog against the light of day It goes, lapping the sea like dew; the speaker promises some current change, concealing the denial of such a change in the world outside of words II. Buried So Deep Ice covers ice, layers of indifference to the freedom of water, of rock, of man, of beast, impacted like the words of a shaman who never held a spear, a cheater who never prepared his own spells of power Underneath, a rebus made with arrowheads, carved ivory and a death mask—glyphs like maggots running from its nostrils The mystery of the grave has kept men testing its bounds with war upon war, god versus god, and fine speeches meant to deceive, calling on false evidence—threats that fade upon nearing, or cloud the vision against the real source of pain III. The Hamlet at Land’s End Water erased so much of the plain, we lost farmsteads, and fences, and the ability to walk from one shore to the next The tide lowers in springtime; then neighbor calls neighbor without floats, striding into the past on lands long lost A king arises from drowned territory, declaiming a myth of his own greatness that never was nor can now be denied Flowers grow early on the remaining scraps of present land; warm currents guard against the frost— the old tyrant winter stopped by the law of the more ancient sea, preserving a faery border around these fabled shores IV. Some Other Doom A stream of speech shifts direction too fast to remain understood; it can’t alter the course of events when the drag of past meaning lies heavy on its wayward soul A magician must hammer spells for years to effect a turn in power A lie alone can’t move such force, nor a say-so of command make new worlds or stages where understudies step up to take a bow Lands disappear in floods so slow time passes unmarked and lives run on to some other doom V. Dreaming of Zealandia Some ancestral man saw this continent before it drowned, marking its memory with a tale of glory and abundance not seen since The sunken plains lie out of reach, below the tears of abandoned serfs, whose proud paradise lives on in empty dreams and the lies o
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