N. Scott Momaday

One hears the river run,
An occasional rise of wind.
Nothing of the setting sun
Illuminates the wounded mind.

A coalescence of the dead
Will simulate a marching band
And stitch the way with lurid thread
And echo silence out of hand.

In faith one is compelled to be
Complicit in apostasy.

Photo by Benjamin Catapane on Unsplash

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