Colored streak.

Cliff face

Once bleak,

Painted in

Bright tones.

A Narayani

All alone.

Red there

Green here


His darkest fears.

The murderers

Seemed innocent.

The killers his

Old friend had sent.

The ones he taught

Had told him lies.

He dropped the brush,

Began to cry.

The twenty years

He'd been exiled

Had made him strong;

Had made him wild.

That painting on

The cavern wall

Showed only part

Of Narayan's fall.

And as the tears

Down his face ran,

It came to him:

A clever plan.

A writer was

That friend of his,

A quiet man

Named Atrus.

He'd conjured up

Another world

Into a book

With pages furled.

He'd even – no,

It couldn't be –

He'd even brought back

His people, and he

Had sent both his sons

To make life so rough

For the poor Narayani –

Enough was enough!

He'd steal that book;

He'd make Atrus come

And then he would see

What his sons had done

To the beautiful world

Of his childhood friend!

He'd make Atrus rewrite

Narayan, and then…

But what if he didn't?

The thought made him weak.

There'd be nothing left –

No thoughts left to speak.

He'd fall through the sky

Inch by inch, bit by bit,

Until he hit the ground –

When he did, that'd be it.

So, he packed up the brush,

The paints, and drop cloth,

Looked back at his painting

Once more, and was off.

He linked to J'nanin,

Contemplating his pain.

A lightning bolt flashed;

Down poured the cold rain.

He entered the tusk

And settled in bed,

Unperturbed by the devious

Plot in his head.

He'd enact his plan

The very next day:

"Hello, it's Saavedro.

Can Atrus come play?"