The Golden Given

He came, did he, son of the ancient Mongol curse.

The milling hoard, 'tis said, took days unto five to

wend its golden passage through the fields of Khazan.

No more the gently swaying white blooms of springtime

whose reflecting streams have vanished into mire.

Gone is the suckling calf and scurrying duck -

dust has consumed the heart of this land.

Gone is the laughter of freedom's child.

Dead is the youth of tomorrow's dream.

The wind howls through the broken sheathes,

stained red in the setting of each mother's hope.

He comes.  He comes.  Golden does Batu come.

They fell, did they, cities at the crossroads of time.

Each by each they were swept aside by golden wind

that carried no arrow nor awesome Grecian fire.

Rotten within, ruled by withered Princes far,

whose vain riches extended not unto silent fields.

Strong were towering walls at the mountain pass

where ancient plan would have turned the flow.

Weak, weak was the resolve of shallow men

with no tie to the land save greed of trade.

How easily swayed by the promise of gifts,

passage sure, and strong protecting throng.

"I am the gift.  Give thanks", calls the golden son.

They wept, did they, simple of the forest and plain

whose thin arms twisted strong like the mountain vines,

with faces carved with years of torment and pain.

The tears were inside, but gave forth a common bond

born more of pulse with the earth than heaven's song.

They stood shoulder to hip in the meadow.

Women tall, child small, cripples on their knees,

gathered stones and poles and kitchen pots.

They took stand with wooden hoe and brace of cart

for no weapons right did defend their land.

The wind ceased to blow 'neath their stalwart cry,

"We are the given - stand nigh in setting sun."

           Batu said, "pass on."

Kinjal of Moravia