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LORD CAIM

By GP Hyde



Through scudding clouds, the great black bird’s descent

to earth comes softly, gently, through the bleakest night.

It lands and walks so nimbly, no waddling here, and bends

A claw as if to bow to me as I stand terrified in my plight.

The lightning flashes, thunder rolls and it becomes

A man, a mighty prince of Hell. ‘Lord Caim am I’,

he does declaim in tones which strike me dumb,

transfix me to the spot with fears that I might die.

His jade green eyes probe into mine.

His words come soft: ‘Present to me,’ he says,

‘Three questions which I will answer before the morning

breaks into a clutch of red raw glimmering rays.’

Not three but a hundred questions crowd into my brain.

But how to ask? He’s gone until he comes again.


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