The Indifference of History

       (“And this poem is a translation of one of the last written documents produced by the Oranyoiryie,” the Teacher droned, producing several sheaves of paper with a decayed flourish. “You will remember that after the first ancestors came to Least, the native inhabitants contracted various diseases from them, which lead to the ultimate destruction of their civilization. Apparently, the author of this poem was one of the last to die. Due to the location where the document was found, he probably lived in the north of Epea-Vandya, very near to where the great city Cariand is today.”
      Someone in the room hissed. Every Rho knew that Cariand was the most hideous city in existence. The teacher should know better. Sure, she was Deltan-- and that laid claim to her lack of intelligence-- but she’d been in Rho lands long enough to see real cities.
      The Teacher cleared her throat a little. “Hem, and we remember what the Oranyoiryie looked like, yes?”
      She expected an answer. What was wrong with her? Didn’t she see that the sky was full and promising of fair weather, that the fields glistened with evaporating dew, and that the forest was beckoning with its strange and beautiful secrets? They stirred in their chairs.
      “They had three... what? Three what, children?”
      “Tentacles!” someone yelled. The students exploded into laughter. Tentacles! Oh, that was great! Who said that? Brenith? He’d have to be congratulated after class. Just keep the teacher busy-- that’s all they had to do.
       “That is correct,” the teacher replied coolly.
      Stunned silence.
      “This particular translation is by Rebbaya, the esteemed Second Chronicle of Arring.”
      All right. So she could appreciate a good Rho translator. Maybe she wasn’t all that bad.)
 
 

The Last Song of the Dead

(Will anyone live to see my despair?
Could anyone dare to read this and live?)

The seas are rolling with foam and blood,
And thirsty enough to tear loam and drink it,
I want to go home, but what home is left?
The tome of our suffering has been written.

This my last page is carved from the block:
The wages of comfort, the wages of trust,
And all that we strove for and counted as sage
Is naught. And O! what a rage has been sounded!

Gone! My love! Abducted from life,
Her body is drifting: a soulless icon
Of the warmth it once had, hereon bereft--
I clasp a mere pawn, who yields, to my madness.

Our culture-- our barrow-- their prayers to God
Are answered, and “no” is the gentle refrain,
Gentle! Kind beast, that washed my woe shoreward,
Allowed me to see the crescendo of anguish.

Mothers, quiet babes no more, the saffron colours
Have enfolded them. And abandon yourselves
To annihilation, and sing no sweet songs to comfort the dying--
They’re bondsmen to blackened high tides.

My fate is obvious, the snipening beast!
Who released my hand to letter, expecting a sacrifice,
As I stare at the east sea with its sanguine spray
And realize my purpose has ceased its insistence.

author unknown, written around 5-10 AH
translated by Rebbaya of Rho, Second Chronicle of Arring
Tacitus 13, 1189 AH

BACK TO PVELP'S WORKS