The Primordials

As the evening sun dipped in the blood-red horizon, A gust of Silence came, whispered and then hushed The warm air that was hastily passing the dungeon Of thick scrub where the quivering grasses blushed. The last flickering of Sun vanished and it was time. Darkened, It was time for hunting and to be hunted. The primordial cycle of hunt began in a raw chime Of survival for the fittest. All hunt now enchanted. Night here is so horrifying, even the Breeze dares To sound its airy hum. Predators roam everywhere. From the high branches, dark caves, dark soil-crater And thick bushes, the primordial Eye of Death stares. The Primordial creatures trample, fly, glide, clutch With their teeth, claws, peaks soaked in the blood. Creatures perish, new creatures emerge here in such A world of Hunters, Hunted. All wander like cloud.