Beneath a red and swollen, dying sun
The last great human kingdom waxed anew.
Queen Lilly, short and squat and strong, the one
Who led it, had found water — not just dew:
There was brook that flowed east, as of old.
“A city we shall found here,” she declared.
“The gods decree it. Here shall rise our bold
And shining spires of glass and metal.” Dared
One of her people point out that they had
The craft for neither? “We’ll pitch here our tents
For now.” And from the rocks afar, the mad
And banished wizard laughed at these events.
His trap would soon be sprung; the land beneath
He’d rule when soon they drank the brook of Lethe.
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