Away from hills and away from mills, Comes a child with no two eyes. With its tiny hands blue and small mouth bled, "There really can be no hope," they said.
It cries out loud, pulling at its rags Carrying naught but stones and bones. Throwing them with vigour (aiming at none!), With its two eye sockets blind and dull.
But no people are there.
Naught but ghosts from antique towns Resonating through the echoes of sand and crowns, Shouting and laughing Feeling not the stones, Pretend to fall dead As they chirp, chant, and dance.
As the memories distort, A presence emanates from dust of broken mauls Burying the ghosts in golden holes: On beds of hard, cold, and mouldy bones Whilst bestowing the child with eyes of ghost desert rose.