by Nick Gisburne
Surrounding him, a dozen dragons deep,
They beg the boy to drop the silver staff,
But, sweeping them aside like bleating sheep,
The child, the pale savant, can only laugh.
They fear him for the colour of his skin,
The twisted braids, unfathomably white.
To touch him is a foul, forbidden sin,
Though few have ever seen him in the light.
He struggles to be free of their belief,
To live in quiet harmony, at home,
But, when they killed his twin, the rage, the grief,
Found purpose in the city’s Holy Dome.
The silver staff of power, at his call,
Relieves them of their hate: he blinds them all.
