The rim of rock on top of the hill  
Is like the forehead of an old Indian  
Staring endlessly and still,  
Over this expanse of pain,  
No seeing from his empty caves, no will.  
The dead mask of his pride alone remains.  

The land below all housed and paved  
Belies the whisps of dead warriors  
That echo through his dreams  
The ridge along his face is dim,  
His hate is cold and wears  
Like rock wears in the wind  
Endless, waiting patience without oracle  
For the hollow revenge of the dead.
 
©1972 William H. Southwell
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