I must warn you, oh wanderer—you should not have seen
this place. You—who gaze out to me from my sister’s estate.
I am not like her, with her silvery seven seas and unfailing
fields. I am not adorned in robes of barley, nor polished
as a copper chalice, nor lithe as orchard grass, nor fragrant
as lilac and lavender caught in the ambrosial breeze.
It is my sister—not I—who bares such milk and honey.
She sings with meadowlarks, as I sound the clarion.
She has always been the favored sister, with satellites that
swarm around her. And her moon—how fond she is of him.
I am not like her. I turn left when she turns right—yet the
others follow her, not me. I am the retrograde.
I have no moons—no satellites. Here the air is thick and
sound is sleepy deep. No feet tread upon my desert floors—
these barren lands sprawl out to every bleak horizon. My face
is harsh—charred, chapped, and chiseled. And so my sister
mocks me; she heralds me a goddess, a morning and evening
star—but she knows I am a waste land, vast and
My halcyon days are lost in yore—before she stole my hues of
blue—before I befell the gusts of solar winds, and clouds grew
thick across the skies until my face was shrouded and my sight
went black. That was when she seized my seas and skies.
I am a forgotten relic—a glimmer in a star-filled sky, a torrid
shell roasting in the sun.
Here are neither trees nor rivers. There are no fawning orbs,
no obsequious moons—only perfectly lonely rocks,
tormented by the infernal day
and the long, black veil of night.