In the East
The people's dark rage resembles
The wild organs of the winter storm,
The purple surge of battle,
Stars stripped of leaves.
With broken brows, silver arms
The night beckons dying soldiers.
In the shadows of the autumn ash tree,
The ghosts of the slain sigh.
Thorny wilderness girds the city.
The moon chases terrified women
Away from bleeding stairs.
Wild wolves broke through the gate.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt