Oakland, Or, USA
I am the oldest of my race, black as jet.
Now we dwell in the deepest places of the earth,
Where man could never set foot.
Molten rivers flow and pockets filled with precious gems and gold.
The gold still sings to us, magical and melodious,
Songs of the days of old, far distant past.
Once there were many of us, proud and strong.
Now we are but a handful, still proud and strong,
Though not as strong as of old.
My queen shimmers in the glow of the molten lake,
Fiercely guarding her clutch of three precious opalescent eggs.
One must be a queen, or we will cease to be.
We took refuge in the depths of the earth
long, long ago,
When the slayers hunted us relentlessly for profit and sport.
Ground our bones to magical powder,
Dried our blood for potions;
Used our teeth and claws for talismans.
We are a long-lived race of beings,
So clutches are borne centuries apart.
My queen is the last, she was strongest of all our queens.
And now she is old, though not near as ancient as I,
Black already defines her scales and tips her claws.
We are dying.....
This clutch is our last hope for the survival of our race,
There must be a queen!
Sharon Lee Rotondi