Prophets call across burnt dunes
Your name spells rusted carnival tunes
The sand hides hides of nested wolves
When fossils fuse to gallop
Watchers of the morning sing
Shifting ripples eye the world
Where silence is knowledge
And creation is consumed
In infinite truth
What sound would I make here?
Would we be us when there is nothing left?
When minerals dry and turn to dust
The graves will form new ancient artworks
And the wind will roll up and down the dawn
Choirs of cryptic trials
Denials of the great fires
That threw the gravel into his veins
He's the faraway hills
That swim into mains of silt
Strap your thoughts to this engine
That rears itself skywards
And the nimbus numbs itself to desire
Can we live with this sadness
That only rots inwards?
Old rope that rows against the current
Twisted with the years
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