The dying sun staggers across the sky,
Yielding the heavens to the rising moon
Whose pallid light chills my ragged breath and
Drenches the earth in cold, sterile silver.
All my life, I have dreaded such a night
Where the aching stars wheel in a slow, sad dance
Above a barren, salted earth wrapped
In crumbling pines and vacant temples.
The river is dust, the forest cinders;
Life’s loud song has dwindled and is still.
I am alone. Moonlight sinks marrow-deep,
Where it hurts, and is cold and hard and dead.
The moon is listening. Its soft sighs are
Argent insinuations, bleak omens of
Longing, of empty nights and ashen wind.
It whispers gently to me of the abyss.
The dead have no song, and I cannot sing.
The moon leers – the dawn will not come.
My fingers sift the soil that was, searching
For a seed to sing in a dawn to come.
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