the red bird sang to me
a song of death and blood and crimson sands
when the mountains vibrated with the sighing of an unnamed wind
bringing hot scents of gold and scarlet spices
the red bird sang of battles and long-dry rivers
of setting suns
and the sad, aimless wandering of the last
doomed to fall alone.
a strange moon rises and the red bird finishes his song
the last notes lingering
as the shadows of the mountains
deepen and close around.