Timothy Dwight

And the prophet answered, "Of what can I speak, save of that which is even now moving within your souls?" And from his Yoruba-stained lips came this: somewhere in the sands of the desert, shapes with lion bodies, heads of men, and gazes fierce and pitiless as the sun, are moving their taut thighs, while all about reel shadows of limping, defeated foes. Bone-sharpened cleats and tempered rackets drip with the clotting blood of hapless opponents. Their corded arms raise hardened hands, flexing iron-fibered muscles that ripple with barely contained explosiveness. Theirs is the torrent of black claws, foaming jaws, and staring eyes. Theirs is the terrible charge against which none can hope to stand.

The lion warriors come like a dream, sourceless, instantaneous, lawless, more real than reality, inescapable, all-powerful. They come like the tsunami, turning and turning in the widening gyre, self-fueling, beyond all scope. They rage like the howling storm, the haystack- and roof-leveling wind. The red hordes explode forward, stronger than Truth, faster than Light, hotter than Fusion, hungrier than Death, powerful beyond Imagination. Our hearts are full of fury. The jihad is greedy, insatiable, unstoppable. The lion roars. Ashé. (Compiled by a citizen of Ashéville.)

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