Rolling hills beneath a low grey sky
The rippling water in the back of my eyes
Stillness hallowed, forlorn and sweet
The black sacred ground beneath my still feet

The earth is rich yet nothing here grows
The river has dried and no longer flows
The trees are bare of leaves but not fruit
An omen of something below the deep roots

Does anyone here but lost husks remain
If I stay will anything thus here be gained
Does the sun here rise or does it merely set
The twilight stretches on but cannot end yet