Dying Art

The wind was in your hair,
I will bring the
valley, for you.

A major shake up. People
bend the moon
on the lake, against hanging.

The snow-capped peaks
would collect all the green fires
for the running tribe.

The centuries weep
for the unknown warriors;
who were born to look like chaff-

becoming fodder. I will
ask the god to write a requiem
for a person, who dies
thinking too much.