On the hills where men once prayed,
Burned sage, bathed their sins with licks of sweat,
Stoic stone faces jeer,
Their voices soar, vultures flocking to a carcass.
They laugh at the desolate plain,
Veins no longer pulsing with herds of thunder.
Slap their knees, remembering,
Countless bodies cradled in the snow,
At the altar of a dead Christmas,
Beneath the boughs of peace, of mankind’s great joy,
Tears fill the pocks in their complexions,
They recall with glee the temptresses of beads, trinkets, whiskey.
But when the men returned, as they had promised long ago,
As prayers unfinished drew to a close,
The shamed stone faces
Laughed no more.