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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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