Red dragons are seen as symbols of strength, of getting in touch with our inner power. In Chinese mythology, they are seen as a symbol of good luck, of prosperity, while in Western mythology they can be seen as a source of malevolence. They are also the symbol of Wales, and are seen on their flag, and on their towers and castles. The idea of a red dragon came to me as a fitting symbol for our conflicted times, our world torn apart, piece by torturous piece, in the struggle, ancient as the dragon mythology itself, between good and evil. This poem finds its inspiration in the fog that has been visiting our winter days here recently. I imagined a red dragon in it, that to me showed itself as a spirit showing me my inner strength and also my pain, of knowing my soul and heart forever in exile, as seems so often to be the poet's destiny, no matter how hard and long the effort to belong. Its rhythm and melody is inspired by the plaintive yet forceful, proud heart of Irish songs, that so well express the relentless battle between joy and sorrow the human spirit has no choice but to accept:
The Red Dragon
Do not take lightly my plight, dear friend, I am a mighty dragon, and can shred you with my mighty claws and breath, but I am weary, and in want of rest. So many shores and lands I have seen, so many treasures my eyes have held, and for a long while, their spell made me content, I slept and dreamed of farther shores yet.
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So many seasons I have seen, and in the excitement I rarely could tell, who was a foe, and who a kind friend. I met sorcerers, I met the sort of human that could bend like a snake all that he said, I met warriors, I met those who surrendered all freedom, all will, to those who knew how to trade illusions for hope.
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As winter now approaches my tale, I find myself dragging my red scales along the dead leaves of the forest at night, and I can not find a warm spot to hide what's eating me inside. I am a mighty red dragon, it is true, but what you don't see is the wound that glows like a fire in my soul, a howling like that of the midday winter fog, that I try to heal with what tears I still hold.
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If I could go back in time, I would stay closer to my homeland, for wandering makes for intriguing adventures, and opens up the sky and its silent mysteries, but the price you pay in solitude and disdain, is heavier than the sorcerer's stone. No one hears my howling, because, it is silent and lost in my soul, to have touched so many shores, without ever being able to call one my own.
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I am a red dragon, fierce and free, my scales glow at midnight, and bring light to the moon and the trees, but I would trade all the gold and jewels of my adventures, just to know that the love I hold so dear, will remember my name and my songs written on the stars and the waves of the sea, that hold the image of the only one that ever came close to truly see me.
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Will the howling of the midday winter fog be able to vanish me? Will I be nothing but a vague memory in a feverish dream? Will I have been a red dragon, so fierce and so free, only to be erased by the grimace of the monsters that would not let me be?
Trudi Ralston
"Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. " Dylan Thomas ( 1914 - 1953).
For Nacer Amari, for Mounir Amari, for Michael Ralston, for Nicholas Ralston. For Catherine Bouchacourt, for Driss Ouaouicha and for Frans De Cauter ( 1920 - 1981).
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