The Wheel
Righto, lemmie have a crack at this!
Okay, cut and…paste…and :
The billowing clouds.
(Those he sees throught the window as he becomes affected by the radiation.)
The burning hills. (Perhaps those on Brunnis1, being destroyed by it’s ancient sun.)(Or, the detection of radiation coming from the planet.)
The billowing clouds that puff and flower,
Are calling me to an ancient bower. (A reference to heaven, and his own final death.)
I must sing my song. (Responding to Xev’s question, “Where are you going, Kai?” He feels the pull to become his old poetic half.)
The wheel. (Time)
Swings. Spins. Turns. (Pretending he’s the wheel, he does a little ballet! Drunkenly, mind you.)
Where no thing is, shall nothing be.
Only then will I be free. (His reference to the only way he can be killed. For, he must be totally destroyed to be in order to free himself of his wanderings. Note the misery on his face.)
The wheel, it turns, it comes around.
It makes an ancient rumbling sound. (Now rumbling, I never got. Perhaps it’s a likeness for the noise of the stars.)
The wheel, it turns, it comes around.
It makes an ancient rumbling sound.
The wheel doth turn, it rolls around.
Gather ‘round the wheel, my friends,
And make amends, and make amends.
All this is about to end. (Nyuk nyuk, now he’s getting silly, but we all know he refers to the thousands he has killed. Interesting tho’ that he seems to believe in the restitution of his sins.)
The night doth bleed into morn,
Sunlight seeping through the dawn,
Decayed, forlorn. (Ah, referring to the endless plodding of his time in the universe. He cannot love, he cannot create, he cannot die, therefore he is decayed AND forlorn.)
The wheel doth turn, it rolls around.
It makes an ancient rumbling sound.
The wheel, it turns, it spins around.
Fellows, come, come. Share with me your tired tales,
And let my windy words fill your empty sails,
As you travel across gray hills and brownish dales. (Yes, he’s indicating that his poetry lacks substance.)
Around the hub we
The grinding wheel
It makes an ancient rumbling sound.
Around the wheel we lightly prance,
Around its hub we sprightly dance. (Trodding on eggshells, we hope to get the most out of life, but it’s a useless thing, the universe, time and fortune don’t answer to us that way.)
The grinding wheel, it rolls around.
It makes an ancient rumbling sound.
The fickle fates, the cosmic grind,
Conspire to leave our friends behind.
(A response to Xev’s cries as the baddies try to leave with the moth.)
(There. that’s my take on it. But I love the idea that the wheel and the rumbling might be a translated plittle lizard’s poem.)
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