Seven Vices - Wrath Poem by Hell 'Farya

Wrath, my child,
is a blade designed to be wielded by none.
Come near; I will tell you a story.

Decades ago, when the sun still dined with the moon,
a man sojourned in a little settlement of the East.
A kind man, if I should speak in his defense.
Wealthy beyond doubt.
They said he wore regalia made of gold nānis,
and silver ones trailed from his footprints.
The ridge of his brow was carved from humility,
and compassion was the drape of his shoulder.
He saw all as equal, but himself as inferior,
for he had done a wrong in the past and sought redemption.
Solen, his name was.

Some decades ago, he had drunk too much
milk from the bark of the Arushe tree.
Solen woke to a trial amidst the town elders,
unaware of the events of the night before.
A verdict had been passed while he was unconscious.
A rope was around his neck, the end tied to a baobab.
The only words he heard were the elders' verdict:
'For slaying a man, you shall also forfeit yours.'
Below him was his mother, bitter and wailing.
Beside the elder stood the father of the deceased.
The rope pulled, and Solen hanged in front of all,
without a word in his own defense.

But Solen rose at dusk, still with breath.
Reeking of guilt, he sought to redeem himself.
He became a man, wealthy and successful.
He took in a homeless boy and made him his own,
married him to his own daughter,
and christened three sons of him.
Together they sojourned in that settlement.
But nothing can be forever buried, my child.
Solen's past caught up to him faster than his goodwill.
The father of the deceased had not forgotten.
Old and toothless, the grudge lingered.
So he found Solen in his vulnerable state
Solen's hand in a jar of water.
He begged for restitution,
but the father of the deceased would not listen.
'For the death of my only son, you shall pay.'
So he called some crooked men to himself,
tied Solen up, and made him watch a horror tale:
his grandsons burning in a field of wool.
The father laughed.
Before Solen would meet his end,
his daughter was violated and left to the cold.
For Solen, again, a rope fastened around his neck.
Without a word from the elders, the crooked men hanged him till his neck snapped.

This did not settle the father of the deceased.
He wanted more, so he sought the son's demise.
'A tooth for a tooth, ' he raged.
When the son was brought to the knee before him,
the son leapt forward in a burst:
'Father! I found you.'
The father of the deceased was confused.
So the son explained further:

'That night, I had played with a foreign matchstick and accidentally set the field ablaze.
Afraid of the rod, I fled.
Look, Father, I have become a man you will be proud of.
A foster father took me in,
married me to his daughter,
and I have sired three grandsons for you.
The first took your name.
Come, I will introduce you to your grandsons,
and my foster father shall throw a feast in your honor,
for he has since promised to find you.'

My child, did you understand the story of Solen?
Wrath destroys whoever wields it.
It spares not the innocent.
It is a poison that corrupts the marrow.
But forgiveness and patience are its antidote.
If you do not understand, think over it every night
before bed.