The King

A black movement, speeds over the green grass fields, hovering centimetres above the ground as it floats gracefully yet speedily over the land. Soaring across the meadow a graceful king of birds, it dips ever so slightly disappearing for a brief second into the swaying grass. Breaking free of the land it soars into the air its catch carried between its claws.

The king of the birds, the Bald eagle. He flies back to his perch on the highest evergreen in the valley. His black coat of feather slightly moving in the light breeze that sweeps across his land, his white head moves slowly across the land. As his golden eyes of royalty sweep his kingdom that he alone rules over. Stretching far across the land only a fait touch of grey on the horizon marks the border of his domain.

A land of serene peace, undisturbed and untouched by the darkness that consumes the very world around it. A sanctuary from the darkness of the world, it is surrounded by the protection of the timeless rock that surrounds it. Monuments of the past glory they stand strong and proud a picture of beauty and power. A reminder of the world before the darkness covered it, ever expanding in the new world.

The wind slowly sways the tall grass of the meadows creating a hypnotic rhythm. The lone bushes in the meadow dancing along, to the tune of the whistling breeze that surrounds them .The tall evergreen trees stand tall around the edge, forming a natural barrier between the grassy meadows and the rocky mountains. A place full of life and energy as it provides the shelter for the birds and animals that roam the land.

Such beauty and peace that is rare and unusual in the unforgiving world. A welcome oddity if man could see its rare beauty. But man must not see this land, for then he shall want to claim its beauty as his own. Tainting it with his greed and lust, destroying what he once set out to have for his own. His uncontrollably urges for what he deems rightfully his. Certainly no man could defy its beauty, and all those who even hear the whisper of its everlasting beauty will surely flock to battle.

Carrying the cruel instruments of torture and war that rip and plunder from the land what is not rightfully theirs. Tearing great rifts in the land for its precious black blood, shearing the silent evergreens for the brown supplies they provide, blasting aside the timeless protection of the land for pathways. Turning grey and black that which was once green and brown. They would destroy its beauty for ‘progress’ and ‘future’. Blind as his progress simply drags him further back into the darkness consuming him.

For what will become of the old king of the land, the majestic king of the birds whose land is now that of cold grey concrete. His walls of beauty turned to dust, the hypnotic sway of the grass cut down by blades of invention, the dancing bushes lay crushed beneath the feat of industry, and the tuneful whistle of the wind is silenced.

For the wind shall now whistle, the grass will not sway, and the bushes shall no longer dance. The land will be dead. Smothered by the very men who flocked to see its beauty; to only stay to kill and rape it.
The old king now looks with sorrow in his golden eye as his once peaceful land. Dethroned by the darkness of the world, his final sanctuary of hope now lays buried beneath the feet of darkness now. With a final glimpse of his lost home, his wings spread wide as he takes flight from the land. Into the distant horizon he flies, swallowed by the red of the setting sun casting a red tint over the land. He flies away, never to be seen again.