The Watcher and the Lions

Quiet

Still and absent of light.

A solitary watcher observing the heart of night.

The whispering song of the wind and leaves, now silent.

No rustling or crying to be heard beneath it’s dark sheets.

The business of night done right.

This was good.

Undisturbed, a word of peace for the Watcher,

Knowing the outcome of things heard or seen.

In those dark hours when the light is sleeping,

those things which are creeping, often far from serene.

The watcher did witness, such surreptitious fiends

in an evening when they emerged from the quiet to be seen.

Carrying their parcels, precious cargo they had stolen,

absent of light, youthful souls from their homes.

So the cries in the night, those of hunger and pain,

In the stillness and quiet, echo loudly unrestrained.

And the Watcher always watching, watched revolted and chilled

from the tearing and screaming and blood that was spilled.

From then until now, where there’s a silence disturbed

it reminds us of nights when those sounds could be heard.

So the stillness and quiet in the night is of peace,

and the Watcher feels calmer while light is asleep.

 

 

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