Divine Brothers etc, part I.

In the centre of the gyre,
Whence the magic threads aspire,
Lies bathed in Mother Sun's bright blaze
A dale aglow in golden rays.
There in the heart of blessèd lands
A mighty silver palace stands;
Its mirrored walls reflect the light,
And like the stars it shines at night.
In its halls dwell sixteen kings,
Sixteen gods to rule the rings.

The Outer Ring they gave to Man,
So he can live as best he can,
And when his years of long life wane
The Middle Ring his essence claims.
The Dead Gods are in power there:
The time-worn, sacred dungeon where
Their shadows long have held their reign.
And there exists no fire nor pain
In retribution for the crimes
A man commits throughout his time.
The soul of knave and soul of king
Are equal in the Middle Ring.

The Dead Gods feel this is unjust.
"For every human wrong, there must
Be vindication of some kind.
If only we could ever find
A way we can avenge the dead..."
Their leader, Alernain, said.
They thought for long with no avail;
Alas, no power can prevail
Over the ways the world is set ---
The gods, the mortals, separate.

And so, five hundred years fly past.
The Dead Gods leave their realm at last,
For every half a thousand years
They hold a meeting with their peers.
The grey threads yield to them; they hail
The silver palace in the vale.

Now in the hall the gods await
To open up the burnished gate,
And all amongst themselves, they speak:
"Why should the strong appease the weak?
Our fallen brothers have command
Of a most awe-inspiring land;
Of what have they such sudden need?
They have no selfishness nor greed
That would compel them to demand
For more than what they have in hand."

And then, the Lord of Storms arose,
Magnificent in fog-white robes,
Spoke sternly to the doubtful crowd,
Voice clear as thunder, twice as loud:
"Why do you turn such hostile eyes?
Forgot you where your duty lies?
Before we judge them, ill or well,
We should hear what they have to tell."

The gods fell silent, put to shame.
And for some time, the hall retained
This rusty silence, till at last
The golden Sun crept slowly past
The amber treetops, and a call
Echoed through the endless hall.
The storm-god stood, upright and fair;
The shining curtain of his hair
Cascaded down in gentle waves,
And his sharp, attentive gaze,
Blazing brightly, came to rest
Upon these most unwelcome guests.