Shakira Seneviratne ’26
Like shadows into my cave,
their mirth slick with hunger.
sheep-thieves, wine-suckers,
men who called me a beast for protecting what’s mine.
I offered them shelter in stone and fire,
but they muttered thanks into echoes,
drank my milk, broke my bread
and named it heroism.
Their leader spoke with a serpent’s tongue,
his words sweet as rot.
He told stories of gods,
yet hid his name like a thief hides light.
When sleep softened my lids,
his hands brought night eternal.
Now the world is only sound
the hiss of their escape,
the utter of my sheep,
the sea’s cruel laughter mocking me.
But I was the monster, they said.
But what monster weeps
for the laws of guests betrayed?
What hero stabs blind a host
and sails away bragging his name to the wind?
The gods may call him clever.
I call him small.
And even in darkness,
I see him clearly.