Beware of the Night

In a place east of here, the night
crashes down, the gloom
fills up the streets, and blackness
smothers the town. No evening
ever arrives, no gradual fading
of light, but simply immediate, inescapable, night.

People do live here, but don’t appear
after four; they just hide
in their homes, a bar on the door.
And yet, to a watcher, nothing
seems to be wrong, but it’s shadows
they fear, and the shadows’ dark song.

For the shadows here sing, and if you’re out
on the street, then their song will call
you, seductive and sweet. You cannot resist
them, you will not stay still, and the shadows
will lure you, embrace you, and kill.

The choir of Medoma, this fear-stricken
town, was once best in the land, famous
and renowned. But a king who was envious
ascended the throne, and could not stand to hear
their voices, so superior to his own.

With help from his wizards, he stole
their ability to sing, not caring
that he crippled them, like a bird’s
broken wing. Deprived of
the music, their world turned
to grey, their lives
held no joy, and they faded away.

The choir is gone, but their shadows
remain, singing of anger, of revenge
and of pain. They’re eternally bitter, full of fury
and spite, so if you go to Medoma, beware of the night.