The wind knows of sorrows long past.
Ancient souls long forgotten,
yearning to rise again.
Cries are heard through distant valleys,
of the coming of the lost ones.
Storms rise and fall on the voices
of the old, the feeble, the few
who remember of old.
When in times before,
the cliffs turned black
with their coming.
Washing over the mountains,
over the passes they come,
unstoppable in their fury.
They overwhelm all things,
and turn all love to darkness.
Are these simply shadows
of high clouds blocking
the warmth of the sun?
Are these shadows of the night,
pushing us home to our beds
and to our loves.
Or are we to face the lost forgotten,
the lost souls of the dark,
an end to all we see?
We see of the dark,
and they see us.
Winds of sorrows long past,
returning home to
lead us away
from the last of our light.
Copyright 2013 Russell Dickerson, All Rights Reserved.
