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The sun devours the skyline red, for he knows
there ain't much time left
Fights with anger the blades of the night
the dark theater in
soaked in the black blood flown from the day.
The skinny fingers of its
last fire sink their terror as in quicksand
as they rise they twist in
the ancient dance - their last dance
try to grasp the Red Moon, Witness
to pain and disease
and she joins the trance; dreams to be:
winter - flood - heart of this weak planet - hatred of men - an orchid kissed by a little child
a stream carries the pilgrims' coffins to the sea
its waters reflect but the nightmares, born of light
as the dead feed the ground so the river twines to the earth.
The river is deep
The river is wild
The river is cold The river is black

The wind talks to the night from the mountains of shadow
speaks with voice of dream
tells tales of sandstorms like dark tongues of fire
- they claw the dying summer
the stones on the mesa shape the wind into laments of ghosts
of mothers weeping over their children's bodies,
victims of the revenge of their victims' children.

The wind is freezing
The wind is writing your name in the sand
The wind is a hiss The wind is black


The desert is witness, book of worn pages - turned by the impatient wind
with the smell of timeless sighs
look, pilgrim, look -the skeletons' fingers point westward
point to the sun/father, the sun/hangman, the defeated
sun, the sun exiled
look - at the rags protecting their bones from the
hunger of the ground
look at the empty sockets - mirror yourself into the void
throat is dry, dust emptied your body

The desert devours the town
The desert cannot sleep
The desert is on fire The desert is black

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