Begat by Solitary Irons

Ron Koppelberger

Begat by Solitary Irons

Hawk Due confessed to the brutal chill of his confines and the green bricks of his cell walls. The whys of his confinement were cut by eons in pass. Another year, another day, hour and second in destiny, told by the will to live.
He looked at the ashes of his life for an instant pleading penance and broken vows of silent heart. For a man the whole of a world lay bare, and for the provident wolf all the night, in flow and freedom, yet for the quest of both man and wolf the answer was a web of interior veils. Did he exclaim martyrdom for his prison; the complaint was a journey to wild savannahs and ancient forest spans of existent, for wont and passion.
He gathered the moss for the rage and desire. He had found immortality through the lanes of candent moon glow crème. He was in the shroud of crescent moons and burning rain, the rain of wolfs and wild measures of infinite keep, by the arrival of a beloved breed and liberties of seasoned unity, with the height of seduction, the spells of promised liquor. The fresh array of longing for the chains of human condemnation hung heavy and loose like the bond of passion and lust.
Hawk layed the match against the frayed candle wick and prayed to the souls of Sheppard’s and sainted wolf breed. He found daring surges of understanding in his recollections, prevailing revelations followed his pale eyes and he growled in satisfaction, he ascended the prison in view of a great gray ghost; in an instant he saw the horizons edge bleeding seas of wheat and saffron gold. Rushing to unbridled spirit Hawk Due saw the spring, the Thaw, the fresh ornament of fair mystery in his reason for endurance. He knew he would be free to consecrate the rule of wolf and rapacious need.
They would cut the swathe, they would come for him in the days of sable snow, finding wine fermented for the wont of mans hunger and the ash scattered across the winter of a black rose.