The night unfolds like paper cranes, burning
like the pyres of angels – forgotten prophets
scream my name, in silence, and in darker places.
And they will ever watch you, with their bared
teeth, like wild dogs in the light of dusk
over the desert sands, as they worry my name away.
And softly, for such things take time, my child
I hear you calling, and its spring again – warm rain.
Falling on a field of burning corn.
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