Vacation In Syattikaland
Vacation In Syattikaland
Welcome to Syattikaland,
Vacation spot of the world,
Home of the brave and few
With room for all, should you be so lucky —
From slits in stones and cracks in black sand,
Low fires continuously burn on
Syattika's sullen shores.
It's forever night beside these flat black waters,
Sulphursmoke curling over desolate sands,
Slow-rolling upward into torpid clouds.
Dim orange flames flutter-flick,
But in the twist of a moment erupt
In conflagration, there to burn and sear
Like an enraged toothache, then settle low again.
Never a moon or sun in air,
But always moans and muted groans;
Lachrymose, yes, on Syattika's volcanic shores;
Never a felicitous dawn or blazing sunset,
Only endless somber night,
Slow-rolling sulphur smoke,
Orange flames growling, hissing,
Heavy-heaving low clouds churning.
Visitors suffer here,
And wait forlorn in desperation,
Hardly ever seen, curled like singed leaves
At the base of round-shouldered boulders,
Huddled bereft under splayed shrubs,
Cringing between exposed roots of gnarled trees;
Curled out of sight,
Lying on their sides in fetal balls,
Hugging thighs to chest, knees to chin,
Shuddering, clutching breath,
Gnashing teeth, gasping, straining,
Awaiting the veering of the pain.
A pale rain falls across
Syattika's smoke-choked black-sand shores;
Orange flames flutter low and dim once more.
Time dies when nothing happens.
Nothing happens. Time dies.
Suffer. Wait. Tremble. Wait.
Here it comes again.
Curling, uncurling, stretching legs,
Lying flat barely moments at a time;
Rolling slowly over,
Onetwothree breaths relief,
Then angry fires sear the nerve again.
On and on it goes, burning, aching,
No relief, no escape, nowhere to go,
A darkland pain-song,
Very, very special.
Syattikaland, Syattikaland,
Vacation spot of the world.
Not for the many, only the few,
Should you be so lucky —
Endless night, black waters,
Orange flames, yellow smoke,
Slow rain, burning pain,
Bargain rates, and no view whatsoever.