The Judge

The grave bears no name

By the seldom tread path,

Only a solitary primrose

Planted by a mother forlorn

In old love.

 

Beware of the traveler

That came riding there once

On a pale horse at midday.

Beware of the sketchbook

He carries in his pouch.

 

Upon an empty slope

Under the old horizon’s sun

Fields of lavender bloom,

Pyres of purple for a stillborn world –

Days to come, days to go by,

Men to love, men to be killed,

Men to be hung from young trees,

Their vacant eyes to be scolding the sun

At high noon.

 

Beware of the traveler

That camps out in the night.

Many a spook is a jackal,

Many a witch is a snake

But he is only ever himself.

 

This new land bears no name

And no calling in scripture.

As long as described in no book

The world is endless and empty,

A desert ripe in its redness

Every morning again.

 

Beware of the evening,

Beware of the night.

Beware of the portrait,

The catalogued blight

That he fashions of everything

And everyone he can find.

 

Keep watching the sun on its run,

And by meridian

Watch all your memories undone.

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