by Simon Temple
The Song of Grox
Simon Temple
Copyright 2012 Simon Temple
Licence note
Sun, the radiant torch of the sky,
Ever, its rays instilled in each heart,
Came the day that burned brighter,
And the horizon that widened on all sides,
And, hearkened to the sky's call,
Came willingly but not forcingly,
With torches in their hearts, they ran,
The ancients, they were later called,
And on to table, they set,
Of their hearts and minds.
And said the Ancient, Coolasz,
Hearken to us and we will show you,
A better day for you and your younglings,
And all the Ancients nodded and showed peace,
The hope from Coolasz reached all Grox ears,
And most answered, Aye,
But the stubborn, who do not heed,
The heedless, they said, Nay,
For, they said, no proof exist,
Only fire-side tales,
Of the land that lay yonder east,
A land so distant, only the sun sees,
But the sun is the giver of hope.
And so, the Grox split,
The heedless and the followers,
The clever and the silly ones, said the people,
And the people joined the clever ones,
And the people joined the silly ones,
They hearkened to the cries of a better world,
And to the cry of stupidity,
But the cries of a better world gave hope and they went,
For the cry of stupidity, soft and few, crooked and revenging,
Gave words of farewell and insults of quick death,
But the followers knew,
They were following the sun.
And as the hills shrunk smaller and smaller,
And the masts turned away,
The heedless found cities to their own,
No crowded rooms and no starvation,
Much food available and the heedless cried to joy,
While the followers followed,
By the sea, with the sky,
On sturdy boats, of elven carved, with the Ancients,
On equal sturdiness, of Groxian carved, rode the rest,
Followers who followed, through deep and shallow,
And Larthak who mapped through channels and Ssoroth,
He who knew of the skies and guided by the stars.
But from the hearts of followers,
Came cries that broke asunder,
News of death,
News of pain,
Coming from their homes,
Through passing ships and sails,
Questions a-flailed,
And the merchants answered sadly,
They drink no more, said one,
They fear no more, said another,
Of the Fearful or any other,
And the followers shuddered of the Fearful.
We must live, cried the Ancients,
The Grox must go on,
Land dwellers or tree dwellers,
And the people cried in sadness,
Of their old homes,
And in happiness,
Of their hopes,
To the freckles of the sea,
And the eyes of the sky,
The Ancient message bringer, Croos,
Asked of Haarohe, the bard of the Ancients,
To pen a song, a hymm,
To lift the spirits, of the young and old,
And out of the sun, giver of hope,
Came the song, through Haarohe's hand,
He picked up his guitar, small and grand,
And strummed.
Grox, Grox, Grox, cried the sun,
Join hands and Grox,
Set away frays and Grox,
Say aye and Grox,
For I am the sun and you are my children.
O mighty sun, cried the Grox,
Giver of hope,
Saviour of Grox,
We heed you, Aye,
For you are the sun and we are the children.
And the Grox sang the song,
Of the Sun and the Grox,
And on sturdy boats that glided across the sea,
The sick healed instantly,
The childless soon borned,
And the sadness soon dispersed,
And the veil soon lifted,
When the Grox sang the song,
Of the Sun and the Grox.
And singing the song of life,
They rowed with the sun in their hearts,
Ever looking eastward,
Away from the fearful,
Away from the past,
And their hearts said,
It will be the ultimate place,
And the sea breeze of good air,
Of the new world, said Haarohe,
And Shandoor, Ancient of the wind and air and clouds,
Aye, he said, still far off, the smell of virgin forest,
And Crossock, he yelled and got down with Plockard,
The architect Ancient and his apprentice,
And drew magnificient clan-house,
And drew village-halls of grandeur,
And Grockor, the artist Ancient,
He painted out the new world,
Unseen but not unimagined.
And always, the Ancients listened to the birds,
The aviary Ancient, Crardoe, asked and they answered,
Fair weather for the rest of the week,
And always the Grox asked,
Is land in sight?
And always the answer came,
Nay, no land, only small islands and rocks,
And head bowed, they returned to their oars.
And the fleet of Groxians, as they called themselves,
Met passing ships and always the question was asked,
And always the answer was the same,
And came the day when black crows flew the sky,
And Crardoe, asked, what breed flies so far out to sea,
And the birds screeched back,
We bring tidings of evil, The Fearful is on your tail,
And the Groxians shuddered once more,
Unforgetting of the Fearful,
And Crardoe quickly begged the birds,
Good tidings or none at all.
No sooner than the thought passed,
The west sky dimmed and shrouded,
The Fearful is rising, said the Groxians,
And fear and panic crept in their hearts,
The lantern of the sky, covered by canvas and hidden,
And each mind, attempting to flee and cower,
And Seron, Ancient of fathers, asked his sons to keep a sound mind,
And Croos, the Ancient messenger spread the advice across the fleet,
And slowly, each night past cautiously and each day,
A mysterious time before the night.
Came the day when the sun dawns no more,
And the Groxians' feared the Fearful,
And Kalarntar, the Ancient of magic,
He went below deck and prepared his concoctions,
And Sharkron, the Ancient blacksmith,
He went to his furnace and built a fire,
And the rowers rowed ever faster,
Away from the darkening west,
Away from the looming shadow,
But it came back,
Not to be left behind,
And came the white bird,
Shrewen, Crardoe called,
Tell me of the west and of the east,
And Shrewen told him,
In whispers of whistling,
Many boats and people of
the west,
Sea and water of the east,
And Crardoe feared and told Shrewen,
Fly no more to the west,
And Shrewen took to the east,
In search of sun's land.
And all Groxians glanced to the west,
The darkness was dark,
And the sun's rays do not penetrate the veil,
And the Ancients called to table,
And they talked once more,
Asked once more for word from the hope-giver,
And for the tale of the sun's land,
And Haarohe picked up his guitar,
And Noitrocks, the Ancient sage, cleared his throat.
The giver of hope,
She says,
I have many faces, my children,
My sister of the night,
She is your path to me,
And I am a path to your new land,
And your hearts are your strength,
Long I purify the land,
Long I skinned the pebbles,
And it is for you, sons of hope,
But storms and lightning must be endured,
A long path and many a disturbing place,
I have no faces,
But hope prevails,
As memory prevails.
And the tale of sun's land,
Spread as the wind blows,
All Groxians sighed and locked on to their hearts,
And sighed once more,
But Seron spoke once more,
Of the need and help,
Of the heedless and the Fearful,
And the Groxians looked up and asked,
What of the heart of the Fearful,
Is there any?
And Seron sighed and turned to Noitrocks,
And Noitrocks, he looked to the setting sun,
And asked for strength and cleared his throat.
At a time,
Distant past,
With Ancients with their Ancients,
The time of peace and abundance,
With every pure heart couple of the Sun,
With two hands or more,
And their voices were ever soft and delight,
But the underground evils,
Ever cowering from the Object,
Was malicious and horrible,
And set to table, their crooked minds,
To set loose the Object,
And soon when the Object was lost,
They immediately came from under the ground,
And tore apart the pure hearts,
And poured flames,
But the Object somehow reappeared,
And the undergrounds were once more,
The undergrounds.
But the flame that was poured,
Slowly seeped unnoticed and destroyed the innocents,
And took over the pure hearts,
The ancients' ancients panicked and tabled,
And seek advice and sent for help,
The undergrounds watched from below and laughed,
But ever cowering from the Object,
And the plan soon came,
Of different minds but similar hearts,
And used the Object once
