A poem by Ksenia X.

It began, as it does, with a sunrise
and a goddess – Oriana.
She blessed the earth
and made it black, its fertility
a gift for generations.

Then came a river, north to south,
On its banks the wind-bent willows,
Where child-like mermaids played
and, turning their faces upwards,
Told poems to the moon.

At three fields, you fired your earthenware
and buried it underground.
You cast your gold
and told your life.
You made relics that we cherish.

We were agrarian, hunters, fishermen,
traders.  We had our gods
of sun and thunder,
You your nymphs and forest sprites.
These were our religion.

He was the ancient ferryman.
Or were they the three brothers,
Who sailed downriver with their sister?
And greeting destiny with arms 
thrown back, we began in earnest.

We built our grand and ancient capital,
The seat of our civilization,
Whose chain-mailed princes
were conquerors and great and wise,
Whose daughters became the wives of monarchs.

They gave us their tridents
and first blessed us
and on they stand in silence.
They built first domes, touched by the same sun
turned golden and now will be forever.

We were the dark-eyed beauties
fit to beguile a sultan.
We were the warrior horsemen
building our island fortress
beyond the churning, burning rapids.

We lived in freedom and democracy.
We minted them with our horses’ hooves,
Striking sparks from the soil
of our grasslands, as we thundered forth
to defend them.

We were buried, eyes bound in silk,
In great mounds on the steppes.
On our bones grow wheat and rye,
That golden expanse meeting at the horizon
with the ever blue of sky.

And we learned about ourselves
from the blind bard led
by his little orphan guide.
We built white houses beside cherry orchards
And slept by them in summer.

Come winter we gather together
and await the rising star.
We light a candle to the harvest,
Feed our cattle, feast
and welcome song, the visitor.

Come spring we plough and sow
and draw the gifts of your
fertility onto fresh, new-white life,
Onto delicate shells.
You bless us and we share.

Come the next summer we
see you explode in life and flowers
and berries.  We imbibe your bounty
and we paint it 
onto the walls of our houses.

There are times, it’s true,
When our great poets statuesque
once again bend their furrowed brows,
When the guelder roses bow
with worry.  Then we know our task.

Come if you will.  Try to tell us
we are not.  We have giants.
There are lions amongst us
whom you’ll wake from slumber.
You do not truly know us.

We have been and we will be,
For our heroes do not die.
Bring your war.  You will create more.
And we’ll tell you
our unanimous reply:  We are!

On the eve of summer solstice,
On high mountain meadows,
She’ll gather the fleetingly red rue
and walk forgotten paths to find me
where I dream in my forest clearing.

We’ll dye our threads
the colours of her flora
and with them we’ll embroider
the contents of our souls and wear
our hearts on our sleeves.

We’ll drink from mountain streams
so clear as to play music
with their crystal.
Bonfires will light a night sky
perfumed by fur and pine

and, as the shadows of our
forgotten ancestors dance on her
stone cliff faces,
We’ll remember how we can, if we must,
Protect what is precious with our hands.

Then we’ll walk the sloping parks
of our grand and ancient capital.
We’ll sing our hymn again
on the playground of our freedom,
Beneath our beautiful - Sophia.

We’ll gather sunflowers and poppies,
Braid ribbons, light candles
and set our wreaths to sail.
They will lead us to our love.
Of course, it’s her, eternal.

Melbourne, April 2022

~oOo~