I
The summer ended
the sun went south
by the light of the moon
he danced his
dance of death.
I was his witness.
His body could not
be found.
II
The day breaks
to silence
the local birds
can sense
when to be still.
Our crops are failing and
our gods are dead.
Even the great Pan is gone.
I can smell it,
something has ended.
So I kneel
as I've been shown
before the New God,
eyes shut, hands clasped,
and pray to this unseen
but allegedly all-knowing One,
"Help us!"
III
The children now
somehow grown
like plants in a myth.
Yet my sadness lingers
and I often wander off.
I have lived through
my usefulness and
my wife is long dead.
The priestess smiles as
I walk past her out to
the edge of the fields
wondering, "What does it mean,
'the dead go west'?"
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