We danced all night after mixing dirt and grass and blood for scripts to gods on our skulls. Night brings mediator moon to whom the sun reports. Kindlier it treats us; in the morning, sometimes, a wetness appears, a dew of fertility and replenishment, of grass softening ability against war warn feet. But oh, gentle moon and fire commune now. A scurry. Frantic steps against the steppe. Collective dry tongue pleading. But after all, a moistening in the eyes which only our powerless companions can see.

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