"The ancient customs candidly forbid
That I, enrobed, should walk the windrow rows."
"And so they do, but for a dog amid
The foxes, I should judge that as the crows
At will fly on our crops, for you as those."
"So thoughtlessly you speak, yet in your heart
I know you do not see me set apart."
The drying harvest formed dim corridors
Rokhem by name, by sight tendrilous hooks
Of hazel hues and iron-scented spores
Though grim, strangely inviting in its looks
Rokhem fed all the scavengers and rooks
Well cultivated, wealth beyond all want
But growing ever pallid, weak, and gaunt
"My father said this row was mine to cut
But how could I have done this in a day?"
The two trekked on along a narrow rut
Each stride struck Khazemil with new dismay
Which Merrasir did nothing to allay
His eyes were on the sheaves, his mind the past
Dead leaves and secrets epoch-overcast
"I fear the scent of blood on fresh-cut grain!
Diminished to a phantom thought in bread
But overbearing here, laid on the plain."
"Oh Khazemil, there is much worse to dread!
We must return at once and go to bed.
Tomorrow you shall work to help our cause,
While I defile rokhem with prying paws."
A lightning strike of shock ran through the fox
Beyond what pain he suffered not to sleep
So Merrasir stayed back to gather stalks
His friend in fleeing trying not to weep
Another wall destroyed around the keep
"The vision! Oh, the first thought in my head
Was him, a scythe, and luminescent red!"
As Khazemil far faster than before
Wove through the nighttime vapors of the street
A candle lit, a motion at the door
Again in darkness utterly complete
Again a thudding, distant, dire beat
Embraced by melting shadows on his frame
Pursued by no-one calling out his name
A pinpoint light, a vague electric hum
One flicker, just enough to lose its trust
The shapes without it, what would they become?
The spaces most concerning, without dust
The distance disconcerting, stifled rust
"Return, and lose my life again to dreams?
Each moment one more blade against the seams."
❦