the people paused, mulling over history's words,
then asked, "and what is the sun? does it die at night
when our cities collapse and our people smother it
with their own versions of history? or does it
sleep soundly under the blanket of fate, knowing
that 'though we may forget dawn, nothing will spare us
from being blinded by it's light?" they thought for a moment,
then spoke again – "if the night is only temporary – what, then, of the sun?"
and history replied,
"the sun is a boy,
golden arms outstretched to his beautiful mother
beneath the palm tree of his birth,
the sun is a boy.
the sun is a brother,
golden curls splayed across the ground as he bickers
with his sister beneath the full moon of her namesake,
the sun is a brother.
the sun is an athlete,
bare heels licking the hot earth and arrows released from his bow
with the surety of a thousand armies much older and smaller than himself,
the sun is an athlete.
the sun is a poet,
his words seeping into the ink of great Epics, into the tongues of nine Muses,
into the lungs of scholars as they drown themselves in stars and philosophy,
the sun is a poet.
the sun is a surgeon,
catering to the wounded in war zones, stringing thread through bullet holes
and kissing the foreheads of those whom even miracles can't save,
the sun is a surgeon.
the sun is a fortress,
golden fingers plucking horses from their chariots and soldiers from their armor,
slicing heroes at the tendons of their heels, and promising to eat the world whole,
the sun is a fortress.
the sun is a plague,
ugly black decay as it shreds lungs and skin and entire bodies, until all that's left
is corpses half-burned half-buried in their own desperate prayers,
the sun is a plague.
the sun is prophecy,
temples wreathed in laurel, built on legendary battlegrounds
and cradling the womb of the universe,
the sun is prophecy."
"and what, now," asked the people, as they forgot and collapsed, "is the sun?"
and history replied.
"the sun is a god,
and dawn is only just around the corner.
the sun is a god."