The sky was young, as once was he,

and all the world a single shallow sea.

The sky was black when, birthed alive,

he strove at first to fly, then learned to glide.


He skimmed the waves to take his prey.

Beneath his wings, Time skimmed away.

Young mountains rose in majesty,

grew old, and sank back into sea.


In time he joined the mating flights.

By fire and claw he earned the right

to rise and take his mate, in time,

and claimed his place among his kind.


In time, the sea turned into ice

and hid the newborn land from sight.

A newborn race was born of slime

and rose to slay his kind, in time…

Vast, the valley stretched below

is weighted now with silver snow.

The peaks above, though sheathed in cold,

hold one cave warm and heaped with gold.


Nodding, watching, faded, grey,

his ancient eyes see miles away.

His mind enfolds like distant dreams

the song of sweet Infinities his yellow metal sings.


Old, now, his thoughts are rimed with frost.

So much forgotten, so much lost.

But still his gold can somewhat ease

the pain of Immortality.


He knows them as they cross his gaze.

A man and woman of that upstart race:

The human-kind that somehow rose to slay

a race far mightier than they.


He slowly shakes his ice-white wings,

tastes ancient rage, remembering:

The males have iron shells, and cutting things.

The human females scream.


The human females sing…


He drops down with a battle-scream,

only now remembering

just what it is he needs to ease

his burden of Eternities:

A maiden’s voice to sweetly sing,

to make the gold that soothes him ring.

A golden voice to amplify

the dreams that only gold provides.


Among his Hoard this maid will bide

perhaps a hundred years, until she dies.

Her golden voice will harmonize

before his ever-watchful dreaming eyes:

Ice-dragon’s lullabies.


S.W. Smith resides in Florida and writes primarily fantasy poetry and dark fiction. He has been featured in publications as diverse as Easy Rider Magazine and Dark of the Moon. His fiction ranges in length from short stories to novels, and his poetry has been performed on six Continents and under the Arctic icecap. Being entirely ornamental, he does not work in the ordinary sense, but spends a lot of time on improbable Projects and exploring intangible Realms.




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