I travelled East today
To see the Guardians of whom, my parents say,
“They ne’er abort their post by day
But stand, one thousand years till now,
Rooted to the spot somehow.”
And there they were — the two of Gold
Majestic to my eyes — Behold!
The ones of whom my parents told.
Opaque, turbulent, burning fires
So blinding, I could barely see
The Forbidden Land that lay yonder.
Not unlike I were they, yet strangely unsame,
Wielding swords of spinning, twisting, blazing flame.
A holocaust of light so bright.
Their heat — Intense!
Their size — Immense!
Approach and hope to live — Insane!
And so I stayed, verbosely lame,
And surely as I’d heard,
They did not move, or speak a word —
The Guardians of whom, my parents say,
“They ne’er abort their post by day.”