RITUAL

THE NORTH WIND BLEW

On its way down through

The god-forsaken Valley of the Dead.

And the icy, brittle rain

Battered, but didn't stain,

And spattered on what used to be a head.

The dark clouds gazed,

And the icy rain glazed

The skull peering skyward with sightless eyes.

All its other bones

Were scattered in the stones

With teardrops where its lover still cries.

Lightning split the sky

And something catches the eye

Of the young Indian warrior with his horse.

He utters a command,

Stills the stallion with his hand,

And strides to iv'ry sticks in his course.

Thunder rumbled 'round

And shook the rocky ground

As if it knew what was happening this night.

The Indian sniffs the air,

Looks through his matted hair,

Pushing his senses beyond his sight.

Warily he proceeds;

This last of fateful deeds:

It's time this boy became a man.

In the dark the chain gleams,

He's seen it in his dreams,

'Tis time to conclude the elder's plans.

He kneels down low,

His motions too slow,

And looks into empty eyes of doom.

He handles the old skull

And tries an ancient lull,

Wishing for the safety of a womb.

With hands like a vise

And fingers cold as ice

He pries open the grinning jaws of death.

Probing deep inside

He feels a sense of pride.

He draws out a disc and holds his breath.

The golden doubloon,

Like a yellow moon,

He holds in his strong but quaking hands.

It was pierced upon a chain,

He sees in his brain,

By a man who was killed where he stands.

It's told in ancient tales,

As the wind around him wails,