Between the child's eyelashes he passes with his long pointed shadow he mows he winnows until the last tear trickles into the earth beneath the last stone.
The translucent eyelid closes over the place where there once stood a proud city raised by throngs of people saved illuminated three times. Now it is desolate dust.
Built into its hearing, Ana and the child cry.
Come come come, you hear. They shout, you shout. The hand of the compass feigns death.
Convoys come close signaling departure.
When they pass, cage bars, meridians, rattle.
In the mirror, the window, a white dusty road.
I run, in the crowd a child wanders, just like me.