Tiger bone waterfall

In the hills in Southeast Asia, there is a waterfall

It is not gigantic, nor especially tall,

But it has beauty, like no other

Given by the bones of an old tiger mother.

Bones in the plunge pool, buried long ago

By monks in robes, careful and slow.

Bones of a goddess, colossal and fierce,

Beautiful, strong, with eyes that pierce.

God that died in a war of gods

Struck down by the god of war’s bamboo rods.

What little magic is left in the bones

Gives the waterfall and its smoothed-out stones

A verdant green glow, vivid and alive,

The plants all around cannot but thrive.


Warrior architect

My duty is creating warriors and fighters,

Slashers, crushers, voracious biters.

I craft them for worlds of battle and war,

My sole task since the days of yore.

I look at each world and see their need,

Ready my tools, I design and breed.

Set them free for destruction or order,

I have noted: ‘tis not a clear border.

You should see the beauty I have created,

Planets of deserts where a hunger was sated,

Eternal oceans of burning blood,

Tides of bodies avalanching like mud.

Continents cracked, skies torn asunder,

Atmosphere escaping, only death, no thunder.

All so quiet, lifeless and clean,

The marvelous beauty that I have seen!

No, I have never asked for any reason,

It is not my place, nor is it the season.

Tell me of your world, small one, go ahead please,

Is it one I visited? Does it still have trees?

Hmm, I do not think it has been on my list.

No, I am certain, your world has not been kissed.

Your one still breathes, and all do not fight,

Most spend time eating or learning to write.

Not a part of my plan now, most likely not ever,

Unless… One day I might need a lever…

Ser Round

The knights parley late on the bloody war’s eve,

Tactics discussions so we may live.

“We should arrange our very best troops,

In single-file lines, not just groups,

With a right angle after every triple-knight,

Half the angles left and half of them right.

That will cut through the enemies like butter,

Start in their guts a fearful little flutter.”

Said Ser Rated, a veteran of war,

Of two hundred battles, maybe even more.

“No, we start with me in the middle,

Keeping rhythm with my fiddle,

Every other knight exactly, no more,

Than twenty paces from me, I am the core.

Like the outline of the sun we march onwards,

Leaving the enemies’ bones for the birds.”

That was Ser Round, a bloody old hand.

He lives on his green, battle-won land.

“No no no, you’re all obsolete,

With my tactic, steel won’t cut meat.

I will spread my special little smoke,

With my wheelbarrow made of oak.

When our foe smells my little trick,

He’ll love us dearly, sure and quick.

No one will die, no one will suffer,

And we get their country for a buffer.”

Said Ser O’tonin, the wisest of the bunch.

He persuaded the king, that’s my hunch.