Cry out to the one who walks ancient roads

those funeral trails built to honor the sky

A sun setting blood-red into shadow

casts the twilight of this place already lost to time

whose dead still captivate the living

rushing toward some facsimile of redemption

ephemeral as mist over morning fields

A river once ran through this land

out to a place of many waters, now dry

and still some phantoms wait there for rain

as dust-winds scour the final remnant

Ever falls the twilight of the blood-red sun

over this weeping land

and tomorrow one will wake who remembers

far back to the scarlet zenith

when a river flowed through this place

out across the lands that touch the sky

away to a land of many waters

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Been trying to decide who my choice would be if I could have a conversation with anyone, living or dead. Thoughts?

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Image by Reimund Bertrams from Pixabay