---

---

On the Hill of Monra

Would you have your improprieties’ remains discovered by the morning Sun?
On the Hill of Monra, the damsodels blow to Life and seed
the souls of the nowhere, and the soon to find release.
The Doom of the beings from Soninland is
their faces are turned continuous to the centre of the world,
enriched and embittered by the music of a chordless Sun.
The flags of the Forgotten rattle in the winds of Life
on the Hill of Monra, and there He lies beneath,
the sleeping Sun’s son and an embalmed army.
What wakes?



To read more poems by Fletch, sign up to the email list!