Haunting a Scar of Crops

The dark ink of night burns
with the white lash of a whip.
Western fields rage with a fire,
pale ghosts haunting a scar of crops.
Dim, frantic, the path in the twilight,
pounded flat by black dirty feet:
white tree branches reach down
to strike those who pass in fear.
The moon casts a shadow of a cross
through the gaps of the night.
Dawn rests a long way away:
darkness fills with cries and prayers.

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