The shaman grasped the spear firmly,
as he stood on the beach this fine moonlit night,
and he waved it aggressively at an angry ocean.
"Stay back," he said,"and be calm.
Your children bid you to hear their mouthpiece,
and soothe your raging temper.
I draw straight lines from the Pole star
to her five sisters
and bind you within their radiant arms."
And their fears were manifest,
a tangible shadow across the night's surface
one that lent conviction to the entranced spirit-keeper,
an enemy known, ethereal,
yet confined to the limits of conscious thought.
On what fine day will he see defeat then?
Are there no bounds to his powers?
Ah, but when he stands on that beach
amidst the ruins of his village,
as age and decay rot away the traditions of his world
and the threads come loose from the fabric of his star-spiced worldview
racked and ravaged by strange, new seasons of smallpox and arrogance,
then he he is forced to sit back down, agape,
the spear slackens in his hand,
and the Fight in him ebbs away,
cowering in dazzled incomprehension.