Think of a dream with me,
One of pale shapes in a rising fog.
Alone do we stand upon this hill,
Waiting for someone to appear.
Who is forgotten to us,
As lost to our minds as hidden stars above.
Like the stirrings of a sickness,
Does unease stick to our gut.
Twisting what calm remains,
Something beyond our hill raises mournful voice.
Breaking the stillness once found,
Now sinister shapes materialize.
Trees in the distance with bows laid low,
And beneath our hillock lies a foundation of stone,
Cold as death as we are to the bone.
Again we hear those mournful notes,
Sung by throats hoarse with the hunt.
But what is hunting and where is the prey,
Terror now roots me to this slope of gray grass.
As truth sets in like binding chains upon wrist and legs,
I notice my own bound limbs.
Upon an alter I stand screaming into the night,
While below this hillock things prowl between tombs of stone.