The narrative of your native tribe
Will blend brown till like copper,
A mineral yet to be mined, known
Or yet to be named.
Deserts were oceans, forests maybe,
Where now only waves of wind break
On the stories we fill in there
To keep the Mystic company;
A man brokering his own philosophy
Can get mighty lonely at times
And needs more of a companion
Than the bosom of the earth provides.
Withdraw your posts,
Unbarb your wire,
Let the stock roam freely
Until the sands run green again.