Took the sky train to the cloud falling out,
Black lightning striking dark water.
Dreamt of the spirit bears in the old forest,
Sending their kin off to sleep,
Trudging the ancient trails to the last mountain pass, where the bridges burn into eternity.
We carry our bows on our shoulders, arrows tucked into quivers on our hips,
And this dream turns, until we flip into an underworld, where the sandman rules the dead.
“You will sleep the years away,” he whispers, waving us in.
We walk shoulder to shoulder with the spirit bears, gazing at the burning sky in the dark passes,
And that sky train seems a forgotten dream now,
But the black lightning keeps striking.
The dark waters of the lake are now vast expanses of otherworldly opal, shattering with each blast.
As we top the mountain, an old woman sits in a throne of driftwood and moonstone – Niben, she calls herself. “Here you are judged for the dawnlands,” she whispers, but her voice carries over all of us, echoing in our minds.
Each of us puts a hand on the bear next to us, a sea of warriors and white bears with red eyes, guardians and guides. We wait. The sky train roars behind the sound of Niben, trying to wake us from a dream, but she still flickers with her goddess strength, and lures us back. “You must be judged,” she whispers, “for there is a war coming.”