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SYMOL DAY SPECIAL
The Sun Worshipper
Brilliant breaks Meridellian morn
As Symol exits sub-Neopian warren.
A reverent bow t'ward orange dawn,
The night deceased, a new day born.
Who is this one who worships sun?
In what endeavour is he embroiled?
And why his brethren think him undone?
Those labouring leagues 'neath squalid soil?
Spy him there with greying pate,
His curving claws so jagged,
Countenance serene, sedate
While outwardly quite ragged.
An aging Symol, long of tooth,
Stands in the open, prone, exposed.
The one they say, while in his youth,
Was the champion digger, unopposed.
A lifetime passed by underground,
Tunnelling drained his dawn of youth,
And in his twilight he has found
Eyes atrophied from lack of use.
No light intrudes upon sight's nocturne,
No shadow passes his horizon.
Young Symols tend to mock, to spurn
His shrunken figure, worn and wizened.
They do not heed his call to live
'Neath warming sun, in nature's beauty.
Like water trickling through a sieve,
Time's drained through unexamined duty.
So he daily rises with the dawn
Heeding some circadian alarm
To face the sun with open arms
And heat his blood, once cold, now warm.
Cancelling Symol Day
Oh glorious Symols, let us celebrate!
Celebrate the wonderful day we all hate!
Wait a second, what did I say?
Do we really, honestly hate this day?
Why, yes, actually, you haven't heard?
That these Symols, that praise-given word,
Is the name of an awful sort of Petpet?
Symols... oh gosh, let me see:
To start, they're awfully greedy.
Tell me you've never jumped into some pit,
And found not anything but an oven mitt.
Yes, that's right: the fantastic Symol Hole,
Of the same name as the Symol Water Bowl.
You never stopped to think, I bet,
Just how many times your Petpet
Has been sent into that hole and out,
Not a single thing to show but a pout.
Now tell me, weren't you ever slightly hurt
That most Symol things are worth dirt?
Really, why should the honour be given to they,
When there are so many more deserving of a day?
Why Symols, can someone please explain,
Why I shouldn't continue to heartily complain?
What makes these Petpets so highly thought of?
Why so rare, so unanimously voted to love?
So I tell you, we should really make a petition
Against this silly, silly Symol Day, listen,
It's not so great, really just a bunch of bother,
And why not instead we have a Gallion gala?
I'm sure if you've read this that you will see,
That you'll certainly understand and agree,
That we need to cancel Symol Day, definitely.
The Tunnel Digging Process
Through the shadows comes a beam,
A golden light flicks 'round.
It's dark in here, the air is thick,
It's musty underground.
A simple noise, a scurried step,
The dirt begins to quake.
A tiny form does then emerge,
And from him, dirt does shake.
Curious, this fellow seems,
Dark eyes shall dart around.
Tiny paws and onyx claws,
For slicing through the ground.
He lifts his head with practised ease,
Small nose seems damp and black.
Tawny brown, that dusty fur,
Though lighter, front than back.
Upon the creature's tiny crown,
We find that flicking light.
Symols need them underground,
To transform day from night.
Serious, he ponders now,
This tunnel needs to grow!
Decision made, he hits the soil,
And underground he'll go.
A Symol Riddle
Symol Day draws near again,
Promising much fun.
To solve a riddle's no mere task,
For you, I've written one!
Piece together these five clues,
The answer you'll then know.
Guess the item I describe...
Ready? Here we go!
First of all, to start it off,
This object cannot walk.
It travels when its owner does,
But motionless as rocks.
Moving on to second hint:
It is of brownish hue.
"Aren't all Symols brown?" you say,
No, but hey -- it's still a clue.
To help you solve this mystery,
The next clue is as follows:
Round dark eyes and whiskery nose,
Fourthly, you should know
That it can be brought everywhere.
While using it, however,
You may attract odd stares.
Finally, the final clue:
It can be used for disguise.
It'll earn pats on your head;
Of that you're now apprised.
A must-have for all Symol fans,
Fabric is its source.
What is it? What is it?
A Symol Hat, of course!
To a Symol (and Back Again)
What seek you, Symol,
Who burrows so ceaselessly?
What gem, what treasure,
What riches beyond measure?
What will you find down there,
Symol dear? A bug, a stone?
Squishy worms, potatoes?
Or -- Fyora forbid -- a bone?
Come out of that hole,
Sit down, dust off,
Exert some self control,
Symol dear, my digging devotee,
My excavating fanatic!
When I pull you out of your hole,
You're quite melodramatic.
What's that, Symol?
You'll tell me what you seek?
What impulse, what whim
Makes you dig holes so deep?
Very well. Come close,
I can't wait to hear: murmur
Your whiskery whisper in my ear,
I'm listening, Symol dear.
Thus spoke the Symol:
plunge deep into
Neopia's loamy core, I see
roots extend, reach, rise, and tear,
and breathe the first spirit of flowers.
I hear water bubbling dreamily, far away
whispering rivers flowing deep, and I survey
the wonder of endless night, where no grief
can disturb the weight of hushed whispers,
here I can dream in both night and day,
hours mingle exquisitely. For joy do
I dig the peat, as you write poetry:
to make dreams real
and life sweet.
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