Caravan
I.
Ghost-wagons roll in the ruts,
Creaking and clattering on,
Passing the villagers’ huts,
Peasants relieved, once they’re gone.
Spirits ten centuries old,
Ghosts of barbarian tribes--
Tribes whose maraudings are told
Shudderingly by old scribes.
II.
Ghost wagons leave with no trace.
Oh, but where is your child?
There he is! But look at his face!
Savage-eyed. Daemonic. Wild.
Copyright © Steve Eng | Year Posted 2009
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