In the long, treacherous night its keening rises and falls across distant landscapes.

Forgiven.

Forgotten.

Then forsaken.

(Didn’t leave nobody but the baby.)

Desolate, dead and dried up from

a long winter.

As it dragged through the months, tirelessly,

it whispered.

It whispered of unceasing

weeping, of whimpering souls

wailing.

In the long, treacherous night

its keening rises and falls

across distant landscapes.

Until it fades.

Until it dies.