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From the North

In the south live the lumbering giants of the Earth.
They’ve been slumbering there since the continent’s birth.
In the north is a tide that is turning to south,
And the tide it is black, and it’s wide, and its mouth,
It hungers for meat — for the harvest of fire;
Like a wave it rolls on and it never does tire.
To the north there’s a glow like the east-rising sun,
And it glows ever brighter as each mile is won.

And the sabre-tooth looks from the mouth of his lair,
And he growls at the glow; smells the smoke in the air.
And the giant kangaroo pauses out on the plain,
But he has little sense, for he’s little of brain.
And to all the doomed giants there’s a fact that applies —
From the north will come death — from the ones who are wise.
And the giants in the south, they have nowhere to go;
They are huge, they are powerful — alas, they are slow.
They’ve been safe in the south for these millions of years;
From the north comes their end — from the north come the spears.

— D.N. O’Brien