Like the wind and rain, we run.
Shouts drown, die in the slapping reeds, edged grass. The sing-song cries of arrows, an orchestra of bowstrings that we cannot see, cannot escape.
Death comes sudden, life brought to a point, pinned to the darkness. Last breaths are labored, a counterpoint to the soft trod of running feet. Hands reach out in the falling night, reach for stars,
hope for something more.
