Gather and join hands together,
this is the autumn of our mountain.
The blindfold is thin protection
against the black winds raging
from the snowcapped peaks
through the hollow eaves of the valley.
This void stands, precariously balanced
in the talons of shadowy birds,
hunting the gray skies as the
crops erode into dust,
and the windows are shuttered
against the promise of a darkened dawn.
Scratch each name across a clouded mirror,
and draw an X through every one.
This is the blood season of last things,
and last words to recall them by.
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