The Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre ,
The spider couldnt hear its master.
Things fell apart , the center could not hold.
Mere anarchy was loose upon the underworld.
Broken was the holy knot , only whines, no more words:
Any hope for glory had drowned.
The best lacked all conviction, while the worst
Were full of passionate intensity.

But a revelation was at hand, a coming was at hand.
The Coming.
Hardly were those words out of my mouth
When a vaste image of Her glory
Troubled my sight: a city built from nothing but desert sand.

Then a shape: the beauty of a drow and the lion's strenght.
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun;
Her long , well shaped thighs moved, while all around
The indignant shadows of the ones she defeated
Joined a a choir , begging for mercy.

After centuries of stone sleep,
vexed to nightmares by a dusty cradle,
i was recalled.
The city rebuilt.

Sons and daughter of Menzoberranzan , and you, from all other cities
Bow to the new Ilharess, Jabbress Omulu.


:::::::::: Olath hands her this scroll , smirking softly " the least i could do the celebrate your Coming, and my own " :::::::::::::::


PS: inspired by a poem by W.B. Yeats