LOF 5: The Asian Wreath

Being an account of the death of the King of the Falcons, consumed with grief upon hearing of the Asian Tsunami. His heir, the Falcon Prince, gathers a number of flowers & sets off for Asia, where in exchange for his own flowers he obtains the national flowers of several countries. He then returns to Sicily & wraps the dead king in the wreath, before dropping the body into the flames of Mount Aetna.

There is a tayle that I must tell,
Tho’ men be disbelieving,
Of when the King of Falcons fell
Into the flamey fields of hell
& in that moment broke a spell
Of misery & grieving.

My tayle begins beneath the sea,
Angry has grown Poseidon,
For poisonous Humanity
Pollutes his kingdom carelessly,
& so he sends the Tsu-Na-Mi
At canters ‘cross the ocean.

The news brought to Marettimo
& a king sick with disease;
At such sad tidings wept him so,
This news was such a mortal blow,
Once mighty breath began to slow,
Giving out a dying wheeze.

As is the way of ancyent laws
The crown prince of the Falcons
Took up six flowers in his claws,
Transports them to the tragic cause
Of all his weepings & his woes,
Flew far beyond the Balkans.

He drove above the dusty lands
Where God’s flowers rarely grow,
Ranging beyond those desert sands
That change to Ocean’s rippling bands,
Saw clusterings of small islands
In the waters far below.

Mid Maldive pearls, where palm trees grew
To the monkey’s chattering,
Dropt was the beautiful Aloe
Of yellow hue & herbal dew,
In recompense the Falcon drew
A Rose to tie to his wing.

Sri Lanka loom’d, our Falcon fell
For the mountain-scented tea,
Where lions charm’d him with a spell
Of sunny-centred Nil Manel,
He swapp’d one for an Asphodel
Afore soaring ocean free.

He flew the length of India
Where the weird wild banyon grows,
There met the Peacock Emperor
Whom, after tea, flew together,
Our Falcon pluck’d a tail-feather
& won him a Light-Pink Rose.

To Bangladesh he next did come
& the Gangeatic mouth,
Near tygers hid from hunter’s drum
White Water Lilies, quite a sum,
The Falcon dropp’d Helenium,
Pluck’d Sepal & reer’d on south.

He came to Thailand’s golden sand
Where the Rachapruek grows,
Whose pendulous racemes act grand,
For on them elephants won’t stand
But brave are falcons &, as plann’d,
Barter’d was a wild Black Rose.

He flew at last to Borneo
With a Poppy in his claws,
Where Moth Orchids quite pinkly grow,
Guarded by Dragons Komodo,
But opiates all Beasts do slow,
Soon the jungle shook with snores.

The Prince he pluck’d an Orchid free,
His wreath was wound completed;
So on he flew high westerly
Across the sea to Sicily,
Where on an ancient chestnut tree
A thousand falcons seated.

They flew in funerary lines,
Up to Aetna’s steaming rim,
At sunset when the psyche shines
The king dropt in these molten mines,
Wrapt in a wreath, Prince screech’d oer pines
Til that sad, sore day grew dim.

So, if you visit Sicily,
See where Mount Aetna towers,
Think of great Asia’s Tsu-Na-Mi
& how her emblems came to be
Bound in a wreath of poignancy,
For Falcons speak with Flowers.

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