Beneath the Sun

My nation was the first to come behold the Sun,

and every day I feel that closeness to the Sun.

Still further east than new Saddle Arabia,

there is a bounty unseen by all but the Sun.

A desert, do they cry, where nothing’s said to grow,

and yet our gardens blossom forth, gift from the Sun.

No fear can freeze me, nor can jealousy take hold

so long as I am fit to rear up by the Sun.

From long since past, the days on storytellers’ tongues,

are come the tales of the coming of the Sun.

The nights of yore were numbered one thousand and one

and then the world was warm embraced against the Sun.

All ponies lived in mistrust of their own alike

for all was scarce and needful ere there came the Sun.

A loom does not hold in it a capacity

to weave a visage that proper tributes the Sun.

She is more alabaster than a foal’s new eye,

so pure the white that, undiminished, coats the Sun.

Her laugh could dull the swords of all the sultan’s might,

and see we that the smoke of hate would wound the Sun.

No screen obscures Her, not the deep iniquity

that once did seize the hearts of who opposed the Sun.

We yearn for Her! There, as she passes overhead!

The queen of all our joyousness, which is the Sun.

She is a kindness, and herald of Harmony

that long has given heroes to seek out the Sun.

So shall I go, a servant humble in her step

to be a pilgrim to the west, where rests the Sun.

Author's Notes:

Poem by Defoloce