Darkness creeps over the waters
Of the Blind Rivers,
Making so that even the crane’s white silhouette
May not be seen catching fish in the shallows.
The breezes that belong to the sunset hour
Caress the blackened waters that are blind
And so cause silent waves.

A man sits,
Keeping company to
The crane,
And listens to the Truth behind
This landscape’s façade of uninterrupted quiet.

In the breezes,
He hears the last screams of those thousands  
Drowned in those waters.
He hears all the unspoken words
That should have been said.
He hears throat held silence
That the frightened hid behind.

In the darkness
He sees the contours of
Dreams never lived,
Cobble cities never built,
Books never written.
He sees the expressionless faces of many,
Whose eyes are gray and frightened
Whose mouths tremble to utter words
Whose skin is pale as canvas.

In the space surrounding the Blind Rivers,
Among the breezes that harbor screams,
Amidst the darkness that holds the unseen,
Alongside the white silhouette of the crane,
Sits a man,
Tired of the lies that construct this world,
At peace with solely himself,
And in solitude,
Sits as the sentry of Truth.