He prowls the edges of the forest fire,
With paws of soot and mane of rolling gray;
A hunter born from every funeral pyre,
Who turns the golden afternoon to clay.
No arrow-point can pierce his ghostly chest,
For wind and cinder are his only skin;
He puts the bravery of the brave to test,
And breathes the heavy scent of hidden sin.
The embers glow within his hollow eyes,
Like dying stars across a charcoal sky;
He does not roar, but speaks in muffled sighs,
Of all the things that are fated soon to die.
A sudden gust dissolves his hunter’s pride,
Into the mist where all the shadows hide.
A mountain moves across the summer.
No comments:
Post a Comment