Narrator

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,
retreating.

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.