everything about me screams of elsewhere |
before you ask, the answer’s no. I’m not from around here. what gave it away? the color of my blood? the strength of my teeth? the way I say shibboleth— everything about me screams of elsewhere. sometimes, when my eyes are distant, know that my mind is light-centuries away, thinking of home— Ysangra. know it and shiver at the long dark between. the sky of home is a color you cannot see purple-hot and glowing, and when I walk in fields of reed-grass, the almost-flowers bruise and the air fills with impossible aromas, sweet lemon-mustard-peony, spiced cinnamon-dill-pepper. your air is so thin and pale. my home-tree grows tall in a city-grove of people who sing in the morning and guard the water-wall from scavengers that seek our life-strength to destroy it, to consume it— we are bred for war, you know, our instinct to defend through attack. and now you ask me why I’m here, across the endless stars? I bare my teeth— (what you would call a smile?) stretch forth my claws to envelop you— (embrace? word-concepts do not always translate as they should) and exercise diplomacy— (I know that one! the art of telling lies): I come in peace. line count: 49 Prompt ▼ |