A conclusion
We can account for the scars in our sides
Yet we are not privy to the thoughts that we discard
Those who would break us, nurture our despair
But still we cherish those who we revile
We take this battle in our fortitude
The war of will yet to be resolved
We broke the font from which we sup
Bit hard upon the nape of our chaste and drew blood
Take refuge in our commune, orphans, staccato souls
Scrawled identities, captives of our consecration
Is this our dowry, the sorrow of our loss?
Do we inflict our young with the horrors of our past?
We use these imperfections as markers, vestige points
We have so much to gain, so little left to loose
Lay bare this soil, a marred ambit, borders bound by slick hraka
Towers of salt carve out tracks, cleaved in two by careless hands
The word is rife, the harbinger, it clings to us this Efrafa
Homba, Lendri and Yonil, it rises like vomit within us all
The weakening words spread out in arcs
The urge to flee, cowardice engulfs
Our hands are raised in unison
Brandished tools, branded skin
Cut away, like so much meat
We forged new scars against ill repute
We hold on tight to one another
I am legion for we are many
Explanation
Homba - a fox, Lendri -a badger, Yonil - (plural) hedgehog, Hraka - feces
The Owsla are without a master. Left alone for the first time, with no crutch to lean upon, they fear the world they have wrought. But it is in this moment that they find solace in their liberty. There are those who still call to their fallen god, in their hour of need, for them this is the hardest task. The Efrafa encircle, the cold stare of uncertainty stands before them all.
In the context of the trilogy, The Warren Of Snares is a metaphor for our uneasy footing upon the earth. As we continue our arrogant reign, we set traps for ourselves. Be that climate change, over population or reliance on medieval teachings for guidance. We open those snares wide, for us to tread upon at a later date, to die at our own hands. In the face of the Efrafa, the giants that strip the land of life, the Owsla found themselves victims of this fate, and turned to the General who offered them nothing but false promises. In their final hour, with no hope of survival, the Owsla took up arms and tore down their government, and turned their fury upon this unobtainable goal. We may loose everything when our 11th hour arises, but before then, we have the choice to halt our own condemnation.
We can account for the scars in our sides
Yet we are not privy to the thoughts that we discard
Those who would break us, nurture our despair
But still we cherish those who we revile
We take this battle in our fortitude
The war of will yet to be resolved
We broke the font from which we sup
Bit hard upon the nape of our chaste and drew blood
Take refuge in our commune, orphans, staccato souls
Scrawled identities, captives of our consecration
Is this our dowry, the sorrow of our loss?
Do we inflict our young with the horrors of our past?
We use these imperfections as markers, vestige points
We have so much to gain, so little left to loose
Lay bare this soil, a marred ambit, borders bound by slick hraka
Towers of salt carve out tracks, cleaved in two by careless hands
The word is rife, the harbinger, it clings to us this Efrafa
Homba, Lendri and Yonil, it rises like vomit within us all
The weakening words spread out in arcs
The urge to flee, cowardice engulfs
Our hands are raised in unison
Brandished tools, branded skin
Cut away, like so much meat
We forged new scars against ill repute
We hold on tight to one another
I am legion for we are many
Explanation
Homba - a fox, Lendri -a badger, Yonil - (plural) hedgehog, Hraka - feces
The Owsla are without a master. Left alone for the first time, with no crutch to lean upon, they fear the world they have wrought. But it is in this moment that they find solace in their liberty. There are those who still call to their fallen god, in their hour of need, for them this is the hardest task. The Efrafa encircle, the cold stare of uncertainty stands before them all.
In the context of the trilogy, The Warren Of Snares is a metaphor for our uneasy footing upon the earth. As we continue our arrogant reign, we set traps for ourselves. Be that climate change, over population or reliance on medieval teachings for guidance. We open those snares wide, for us to tread upon at a later date, to die at our own hands. In the face of the Efrafa, the giants that strip the land of life, the Owsla found themselves victims of this fate, and turned to the General who offered them nothing but false promises. In their final hour, with no hope of survival, the Owsla took up arms and tore down their government, and turned their fury upon this unobtainable goal. We may loose everything when our 11th hour arises, but before then, we have the choice to halt our own condemnation.