if music is to strike these hills

clay like flesh must be found

felt skin to skin in the fire

if song is to return

and will you speak

of sabbath night on the riverbank

god’s whispering drowned

in rustling leaves—

witches crawling

and corpselight beckoning

they will drag you back

while the icons watch and wait

for the breaking of ill-made vows

of silence

—

Photo by Monstera Production