• Vol. 10
  • Chapter 12
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Down the road, past the fluttering, hungry gates
Right where the red trees beat fire
with their limbs,
And the path becomes water
Someone, faceless, falls
to a second death, flies to dust —
Remains rendered nameless and
Time hurries along, its different faces callously indifferent,

By the side of the old, thirsty well
With the hills curving around to conceal, conspire
Something strips a grieving, cloaked woman
Tells her to jump.
A drowning child holds out a hand
Over the belly of the sun, to cup a prayer
The hand lies forgotten, lost minutes later,
still opened. The sky grows
heavy with secrets and ghosts.
It is so quiet here.