It was the vision that led may; the vision of ten swans be sold at a place from yonder. Silence did the vision come—like a dream of the wind that led the hair to fall upon his back. The vision let it may that a horse would gallop the soil of the land, drink its water, fall to sleep on the belly of the leaves.
If he woe to confess his dream—it would to be near tragedy—for dear the wind did not please the hair, neither the horse, nor be the man. The wind let be a silent ghost; whispers lay planted in the ear of many, the tree to be chopped, the flower be cut. They to be shamed, they to be dishonored: for they have been declared a murdered of the seed.
He went on the back of the horse, he sowed the dirt below his feet, he told thou woman who birthed the seed’s mother they would no longer imprint their stitch on the teeth.
“Chew, dear mother, for my seed is good!”
For, his seed yet to be done—it to be let below his feet, crushed, killed, all for nothing but the seed to be gnawed. Yet, the seed to be crushed, the seed to be chewed, the seed to lay below the fire.
He went but again, to trudge through the land, to fall to the ice. He had not swans, he had not money, he had not his child nor the birther, but the dear guider—the spirit of the wind. The wind not the be kind—for the wind became a dust, the wind became a serpent, and for the wind became the ghost of fatality.
Seed let be murdered, dream let be a whisperer of lies, the wind let be a sender.
By: l0st s0uth / KnighStar
