The whispering wind that chases rocky creek,
Blows swift on limb and tree
Where sacred mountains meet.
Echoes grow silent of now
of lost ancestral past
As spirits are renewed from the dark rituals
which blind shaman cast.
Days of old now kiss the coming night
as the revered elders of this
Forgotten tribe chant and dance
to fire's last light.
Stones without faces now stand watch
over these empty and forlorn places
Lending now unto a layman's ear
The whispers of smiling ghosts
Transposed by the sight and sound of their rise
On a sacred morning clear.
J. Allen Wilson © 2005