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The Hollow Hills

Writer's picture: Darkling ThrushesDarkling Thrushes

There were dark days that became black 

When the light came, like lava-fires of Earth. 

I rode from the hills on a scraggy horse, 

A maze I realized only when I stood-on 

 

The shore of the sea, whose waves whispered, 

Their legend of the frothy deeps.  A town 

Of Ghost-dancers had left pots of paint, 

By the deserted street, well in the shadows 

 

Lurked a few businessmen in dark suits, 

Where the bank and drugstore met at last. 

Three crows were my companions then, 

As I slipped into the cold waves myself. 

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