He Was a Hittite

The storm God of the sky was his obsession
In keeping with the faith of his ancestors.
Always an alchemical blacksmith hammered
Heroically, the bronze serpent, the dragon.

He spoke an Indo-European language,
Though neither Indian nor European,
Nor fluent in the tongues that could have told him
Secrets of his gods' and monsters' origins.

He knew, secretly, himself, that the forests
And the wildernesses where the dragons roamed
Were not composed of actual trees, which were
Too small, even the cedars, to contain him.

Mere real woods and wildernesses, here or gone,
Venerated, visited, desecrated,
Were never more than metaphors for the dark
Forest no one can remember visiting,

Vaster than all the thin green shrouds ever clothed
More massive mountains under thundering skies.
It's memory, he knew, he would surrender
If he wanted to visit real more than real.