Counterpoint

Bid the magic tide find the elfin:
Forest boughs of green,
Whispers and snatches of wind and stream,
A cacophony of silence
Made possible by the absence of sound
That may have deterred it.

Standing stones in a backdrop of blood—
Crimson tinged with the crystalline fingers
Of searing light.
Clerics of arcane chanting,
Flashing knives of pending sacrifice
To the demigods of chaos.

This realm’s king raises his enemy’s head and shouts,
“Behold, the head of the scoundrel,
Who has lived to rid us of life,
And who has died to repay.”
That nation’s queen raises a glass and chimes,
“Behold, friends, the cup of peace,
That which has been shaped in good times,
Overflowing with the sweetness of alliance.”

Barren land and abundant lavender
Flows of fire and thundering sea
Silence and its absence
The stars amidst night dark as pitch.