The dancer has drummed the dust awake
If you enter the dreaming, watch the track
Of stars across this granite face.
Far now from bronze hills you stand
On future's edge,
The days come falling, sure as not
Though now it seems History's inevitable plot
"There once was hope in the chaos at least"
I do not mark her otherworld talk,
She lives immune from the present tense,
We miss green grass over history's fence:
I believe we are lost.
There's a rustle in the still night air
A silent savagery, muted, somewhere,
We turn from our dreams to slowturned day,
We must live while the leaf is on the tree,
We move on, we move away, move out;
The wind has changed, see, the granite frowns,
And the dust-drummed valleys cough with drought.