November 7, 2024
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They would tell each other stories long after dusk  
had fallen, 
slice the cheese for charcuterie board 
and turn on the lights,  
it’s darker around this time of the year, 
and the wind  
makes strange sobbing sounds  
as it sweeps over the valley, the kind that sends  
chills down one’s spine— 
this can’t just be a coincidence, can it? 

The hills which divide the two remaining  
tracts of the Irrawaddy basin 
have ruby eyes,  
like creatures of lost delight that gather,  
do not wander too far into the mist, 
you never know what you might find 
the hills which divide  
the two remaining tracts of the Irrawaddy basin 
have ruby eyes, 
there are probably a half dozen of them waiting  
out there, staring from hollow height.  

The swamps covered with flax and giant bulrushes 
are often redeemed to the eye  
by sheets of golden-plumed toe-toe,  
a kind of pampas grass,  
their silky flowering plumes offer an incantation  
against goblins and ghouls alike,  
do not fill your heart with greed,  
for it becomes easier for them to feast upon,  
the hills have ruby eyes,  
from their clutches, let us pray, may we be safe. 

You know such creatures exist, with long 
tresses and roseate cheeks they entice, 
the inverted crescent of their hips, 
terrible beauty, that seeks to indulge one’s  
deepest depravities, 
most of them are females, it is said,  
while minority of males quickly disappear 
amid the trees  
in the mist of early dawn,  
hundreds of feet splashing through the mud— 
we must explain this legend  
to future generations, then, on these principles,  
and not as an allegory of dawn  
as dawn appears to civilized people, 
the hills have ruby eyes,  
would you adhere to the rules or plunge through? 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Pinterest 

Posted for Open Link Night #373 (Live Edition) @dVerse Poets Pub