Work Text:
A letter came in with the post from the new republic.
They ask to meet atop “corpse mountain” to discuss our relationships now they have won their rebellion over the empire.
They do not speak its name.
They speak of the pile of unburied dead laid there after one of the empire’s flames of retribution. The bones are so intertwined and crushed that they became the structure and rocks of the mountain interfiled with dirt. And woven with Roots and trees. The strangers made it a park where the smoothed paths became an activity to climb atop the mountain.
With only a sign nestled amongst the trees declaring the history of the ‘mountain.’
They speak not of way the light rises and touches the land and of the streams and rivers that used to bend through its boughs.
They only know it to be historically important to us.
We meet and They speak of the overthrow of the empire and how they will bring standards of living for all.
They speak and mean the empires way of life in pristine houses with concrete separating you from the land.
They claim not to be the same as the empire to be different but they balk at giving the land back.
“Dont you know that corpse mountain is the last vestige of nature we have left we cant give it away.”
The trees are wrong the forest has tried to heal around missing one of its lungs.
I dont know how to breathe for a forest, we live in the concrete boxes and supermarkets the empire pushed us into before.
But i can feel its loss, And the knobbeled bones under my feet press on my boots reminding me of their presence.
My people are tired and sick and they wonder if this time the silver tongues will speak the truth that they are different and overthrew their forebears. But even then the truth they speak and would offer are promises of better homes, water pipes, ropes, and concrete.
It is their paradise not mine.
And what piece of myself do i set down on these bones amongst the dead who cling to my shoulders like wafts of dew.
The eyes of the men are hungry and their lips cracked raw and thin.
They say the war has been tough. So lets work together.
But their eyes wait with howling cavernous hunger daring me to take up the pen and sign the dotted line.
“Just give up come to our golden land while we still are willing to be 'kind'”
The dead ring in my ears and the trees ache and groan in the wind.
Maybe this time will be different.
I reach for my gun feeling its compressed air empire design in my hand.
Maybe this time will be different.