A Tale of Fire

Ashrabim is not a star that twinkles. It burns. A joint meditation of two bumbling adepts could take two inches off of the ice caps should even one of them even consider the heavenly torch in his thoughts. Any prolonged focus on that flaming body, no matter how inexperienced, is abled to summon an ineffable Celsius. Oceans will become pits of vapor. The only wish that Ashrabim may grant is a lucky trajectory in which your home planet does not get blistered into sterility. Neither is it permitted to be drawn. Death cults will instantly arise to do it homage. Ashrabim is unthinking, unfeeling, and irresponsible. It serfs upon a wave of ash and steam. Imagine an avalanche of sun, the tail of which can not be leaped over or ducked under. Holy men of olden days would pray against the collision with Ashrabim. Then tyrants grew in number and cruelty, so that families could not eat peaceably at their own tables. Ashrabim does not have a mind, but a blunt will of force. If you do not push against that bus of fire, the inaction begins to register as a pull. None of us know what terrible law of nature ignited her and sent that screaming star from galaxy to galaxy. The only thing that is clear is our resolve is weakening and Ashrabim can feel mud under her turn into dry dirt. Governments no longer serve us. Toil has become a swallowing serpent. The harder one works, the easier a wriggling reptile envelops. Pleasure can not be felt beyond inducing momentary amnesia. Families have broken apart, and were it not for certificates of identification, we would not visit. Each friend turns to his excuse to withhold comforts. Look up into the sky! It is Ashrabim, the assuager of grief.