Blind Shaman

 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

www.Jallenwilson.com