Fools Speak Jewels

Fools speak jewels that break in the hand! Gold brocaded tumbles to the dust! An age of thunder gives way to an age of shattered promise! And who would speak the storm in the eye?

I look high upon the lands, decades small flies in great swirling swarms against stars. Clouds pass koyaanisqatsi beneath my driven gaze, blaze the silver orb against night, sharp drives the valkyrie's spear of golden flame as she rides horse and glory along the long viking of day.

Rooted in the mountain-shelf of air, gaze my foundation, and notice. Wise scrutiny ponders pattern. Slender fingers of sinew pass serpentine through cotton-cold whiskers like frost-spotted dander from the tree. Jests I once laughed at, now having passed before eye roving a dozen upon thousands of times through, look dull and unclever, the tricks of would-be clever fools. Fools! Are men still laughing at these dim novelties overdrunk durations ago?

Rumble in the dark rolling clouds, the thrust and rush of the running-forward eager rain standing steady and shaken in the over-ready mist to tumble and fall, bringing forth life reluctant and green-sprout from the thirsty, grateful earth! Roar in the days of old, a great tumult was the tone of crafters and artists, its ambient brawn bold in the sheer beholding of creation! Those were days of sturdy and charge! Those were years like kettles bursting, overfilled awe spilling forth strength and dare! The muscle of might! The barrel-deep bellows of wind rushing out, hoarse and gruff and baritone-bold! Laughter of storms! Vast abandon ramble and rough sprint wild through the wends of world! Had doubt but a seed it was trampled in stampede. Days of stampede that ushered forth wonders of night! There beneath the stars, strong hands of day wove celestial fires golden into knotted artworks, while brags and boasts made tale as potent as pills, more powered than poison, yet tempered with life-greening bursts of serpentine moderation! These bellies were lungs that knew how to laugh, and how to breathe deeply! We sated ourselves on good food and finer wrap of riddle. There was salt, and flavor, and fist holding mug. There was board, and knife, and flicker-flame trench o'er which ale passed between hands.

Nor waver nor flutter the weak-minded then, who fibril 'gainst valences seeming to switch, give over drift and husk-hulled to the sowers of doubts! Bald heads wrinkled deep in the cynical desert, scimitar and brand brandished doubt-wielding strife! And so a seeming jester, once friend, now faithless to me, finds friends in the faithless, and counts out his ranks in the Muspell age of spoil.

Old news, the endless spinning of fluff watched from the high ranks long far above mere disappointment. Not the stuff of fibre and grain, beam and pillar made dwarfen the floor-boards of Gods' house. Nor mustangs let loose in thunder and gallop, the charge of roaring ones, the banners raised high! High raise thy banners still, sons of Heimdall and acorns of the forests' children? Show forth mettle not waver. Stern the eye of my high gaze waiting, waiting for men to worth my notice. Watch the brags of old. They speak value good and bold.