Who are these shadows
that hang over you in a dream—
the bearded, faceless men
standing shoulder to shoulder?

What secrets
do they whisper into the darkness—
why do their eyes
never close?

Where do they point to
from the circle around you—
to what star
do their footprints lead?

Behind them are
mountains, the sounds of a river,
a moonlit plain
of grasses and sand.

Why do they
never speak—how long
is their wait to be?

Why do you wake
as their faces become clearer—
your tongue dry
as caked mud?

From across the plain
where sand and grasses never stir
the wind tastes of blood.