Elegy for the Gods

The mountains, valleys, groves were our home.

Little towns and big cities stood proud amongst the dry sage and trees beside the brook.

A handmade flag flew over the tallest mountain, dirty and tattered but its icon still visible.

Magic lived there, at the seat of the gods.

It breathed through the wind,

flowed through the stream,

burrowed through the earth.

You could hear it in the buzzing of the bees,

in the rustling of the leaves,

in the rumbling of the seas.

Magic was in everything.

Gods were we,

magic our blessing,

our people grateful.

We fought monsters,

demons and worse,

for them.

We protected them.

But our power waned with the years as innocence died—

and one foe proved too monstrous to slay.

As we lay dying, our foe stood over us with a malefic grin and said:

“This is private property.”