Z: Blood Red with Dawn
Blood Red With Dawn
When the mountain was blood red with dawn
I made an altar of smooth stones
and called your name.
I heard your call.
When the river boiled with white foam
between sacred rocks
I stood waist deep
and cried out for you.
I heard you call my name.
On the plains where our ancestors lay
in the grasp of holy boughs
I cast stones upon the ground
and looked for your there.
I was there.
At dawn you were like the morning mist:
At once visible, and not.
As distant as the dimmest dream.
Is that your voice in the morning winds?