Don't Drink the Sky at Myrmidon

In this long northern night
of a lopsided planet
near the galactic core,
the heavens never cease
their dense mandalic whirl,
double suns tease and clot
the horizon in candescent rays.

don’t kiss the sky at Myrmidon
it is both lover and cannibal

In the holy square at Landefrye
on securdays and royal feasts,
on any day along the market stalls,
the blind seers chant tales
of those brilliant coruscations
which have stripped their vision
clean as a master’s slate.

don’t drink the sky at Myrmidon
they say its fury burns the brain

And still the believers trek
cross half a continent,
past Labrek, the frozen marshes,
the whistling pass at Byrne,
to stand with open eyes
as the colors of might descend,
heads thrown back against the high.

don’t touch the sky at Myrmidon
don’t drink the sky at Myrmidon
don’t kiss the sky at Myrmidon
don’t!

 

(Appeared in Asimov’s SF Magazine