Sickle-Sharp

The sickle-sharp moon slowly slashes the smoldering sky that darkens purple with the aging of dusk when lights die. At times like this our ancient hermit leaves his mountain cave to talk to you of dreams, visions, freedom for every slave. Although his eyes are haunted portholes of a sunken ship, embers behind them transfix you in a hypnotist's grip. His hoarse voice, like dried leaves blown and dragged along the sidewalk, drones on and on, and even in your sleep you hear him talk. And just when you think you've understood him, he's gone so soon, but he'll be back another night of the sickle-sharp moon !