Crimson Prophecy | Poetry and Prose

An Mysterious Sage's Vision of America's Demise...

In the hushed corridors of ancient parchment, where the quill danced upon weathered parchment, a lone figure emerged from the shadows—a prophet cloaked in the mystique of centuries past. In the dim candlelight, his eyes glowed with an otherworldly wisdom, and his voice echoed with an eerie resonance that bespoke a connection to realms beyond mortal comprehension.

This sage, known only as Moros, stood in the midst of a crowded square, a gathering of anxious onlookers seeking glimpses into their fate. His long, flowing robes billowed in the wind as he raised his hand, silencing the murmurs that hung in the air. The air grew heavy with anticipation as Moros began to unveil the tale of doom that had woven itself into the fabric of his prophetic visions.

"Listen, O ye seekers of truth, for I bring tidings from the astral tapestry, a revelation that unfolds like the petals of a black rose," Moros intoned, his words carrying the weight of cosmic foresight.

He spoke of a distant land bathed in the glow of liberty, a realm known as America. But his vision transcended the present, piercing through the veil of time to an era where a sea of red-clad figures would rise, like heralds of discord. Their hats, crimson beacons of division, bore symbols that stirred the very foundations of destiny.

"The land of the eagle shall tremble," Moros prophesied, his voice trembling like the leaves in an ominous wind. "Beware the gathering storm, for it heralds the fall of a mighty nation. In the shadow of these crimson sentinels, division shall fester, and the union forged in the crucible of revolution shall fracture."

He spoke of rallies where fervent followers, adorned in scarlet, would chant in unison, their voices rising like a cacophony of distant thunder. The red-clad figures, like an insidious plague, would sow seeds of discord, each step echoing the ominous footfalls of an impending catastrophe.

"Mark my words, for in the guise of unity, these crimson heralds shall spread discord," Moros continued, his eyes piercing the hearts of those who listened. "A nation divided cannot stand, and the red tide shall surge, carrying with it the pillars of democracy."

As Moros concluded his dire prophecy, a solemn hush settled upon the crowd. The air was thick with a sense of foreboding, and the once vibrant square now seemed shrouded in the gloom of an uncertain fate. The people dispersed, carrying with them the weight of Moros's words, etched in the recesses of their minds like an indelible curse.

In the days that followed, the land of America unfolded as Moros had foreseen. The red hats multiplied, and the once-united nation found itself ensnared in a web of discord and strife. The prophecy of doom, whispered by the enigmatic sage, echoed through the annals of history, a haunting reminder of a future foretold by a 16th-century oracle.

THE END,