The Throne of Ash😖😣

This poem contrasts the ancient "Golden Age" with the current era of violence. In the Kingdom of Dawn, where the first fires grew, Lived Shakti the Weaver, and all things she knew. She spoke to the lions, she commanded the rain, No creature was shackled, and no one felt pain. The sword and the scroll were both held in her hand, A Goddess, a scholar, the soul of the land. ​But the Shadow-King, Malice, grew jealous and cold, He hated the stories that Shakti had told. He didn't want wisdom; he wanted a cage, To rewrite the world on a blood-spattered page. He took the Great Balance and broke it in two, And turned on the creatures—the many, the few. ​Now Mira the Maiden walks trembling and fast, Through alleys of silence where demons are cast. The predator waits, with no soul in his eyes, He hunts for the scream and he feasts on the sighs. From the girl in the city to the doe in the glade, A darkness has fallen, a debt is unpaid. The "beast" isn't wild—he wears a man's face, Bringing shame to the hearth and a blight to the race.