A ****** crossed
a crescent moon
in a twilight sky,
the wind whispering
"Is this a blessing
or is it a curse."

Falling stars pass through
the pastel splashed canvas
of a Northern night
heading toward
once green fields
***** and on fire
with no morning's dew
for rest bit.

To the south
mountain tops
pushing jaggedly  
through milk white clouds,
their tips, rock bare and alone,
always looking down on the world,
their stone being smoothed by
one hundred million winds
through one hundred million years.

Only time will tell
if there will be a human shadow
to bask in the rays of a close enough Sun.
Playful gods, mythical legends telling us that
any great wrong will be found out.
A Proverb's Fallout dripping
down our brow like interest owed to creditors.