Sunday, January 20, 2008
There was a white bull and a brown bull engaged in battle. Both animals were vast as the suffering and riches of the king’s own country. They climbed a high hill and fought without cease or mercy through many risings of the moon and of the dead, the white bull, the closed fist of the sea roaring through the warriors’ death nursery, the brown the furious taxi of giants in the matted panic of war.
Finally, a bellow like magma from the quaking mouth of the white bull marked victory upon the mountaintop. The white bull bent before the brown bull, then stuck its horns through the fallen body. Across fields and castle lawns, the white bull ran, the brown held high in its horns, the moon in the arms of a storm cloud.
Meanwhile in the city, lawyers rustled papers, closed files, billed their clients.
a retelling of a portion of the great Irish epic The Tain