Draft 1, Brandon Nobles, 15 February 2020
Lindow Moss was a close community,
built atop a rubbish heap, a dour bog,
Somewhere between near and far.
A miasma to the north, just past the bank,
through virgin forests, the kind that ring,
With bird-song in the bloom of Spring
The equinox sun shines down on the drus
that the shaman strikes with passion and hums;
God be praised!
Said the priest atop his Dais;
Beside the pyre with a torch, he gave it to the heap;
As the rains give seeds the Mother needs,
the millet and the rye.
Meanwhile the chosen sacrifice,
bound and gagged cried for his life.
Cheers and shouts cut through the air
The sacrifice had been prepared.
The flames spurred the winds to action, when,
The demons, they kept peeking in;
And God hath risen from the Moss,
above the priests, above the heap,
Above the ground which God bequeathed.
The people of Lindale turned to the priest,
The shaman chief,
who chanted deep inside his throat,
a sacred rhythm no one knew.
The ground shook loose its crown of dew,
the glittering rainfall
God is great!
The Sacrifice was brought in bound,
wreathed bout his brow with a laurel crown.
Give us Grace dear Lord of Rains
Lord, virile and fertile!
Give us millet, honey-suckle!
Give your seed to Mot!
That the womb of the Earth gives birth to the crop
That we sing these songs for our Great God, Mot!
Give us the children, give us the crop!
Give your Great Seed to the Goddess mot!
They took the scapegoat, crowned and bound,
Atop an ever-burning mound
Beneath a mound of peat built high
Beneath a circle of rose-red burning concrete
arranged beneath the Goddess’ Wreath
as worn by the offering that is Given;
The sacrifice was twenty-five and groomed, well-cut
All his life;
Raised for the People, for the sacrifice.
Repaying a life for life.
They did not know his name, but sang,
Feasted his good health in the afterlife.
They’ll sing of him for centuries;
The way he burned for the Gods in peace.
They sing of him when they knead their dough;
The virgins long for the Lindale crow.
At Lindale Moss in the countryside,
Each solstice the village builds a pyre.
And gives to the flames the royal heir,
Each summer the Shaman chief would take
A walk through the woods and sit by the lake
And go into visions, to the spirit world
To commune with the ancestors, hear their words
the world is alive and it sings such lies
filling him as smoke through a blown-glass
Contorting and forming to the touch of fire
Across his nerves, fingers on nylon strings
Played by a ghost in his waking dreams
The mirage conveyed that he wished for Slaves,
And indicated the time was at hand.
Beckoning the old man into a trace.
Back at the camp the logs were stacked,
The Heir to the Fire was drugged and wrapped
The priestesses in virgin dresses
Rolled him up the hill;
From behind a shrine on gaudy pines
Followed them up a slight incline
Surrounding men and women cheered
As the sunlight struck the cement grill;
The sacrifice was stricken twice
Senseless, the poor boy fell;
Twenty-three and bread to bleed
He lived a short life, the sacred creed
Gave them rainfall, gave them seed;
And returning him to the womb of the Earth,
To the Lindale Crows this assured Rebirth
In an air-conditioned Spring like Eden
Milk and honey rolling greenlands.
It was a tough life, but oh well,
to prep for paradise is hell.