From heavy fog march blinkered pawns,
With backward pointing faces,
Who, on command, step deep in sand,
With boots that leave no traces.
Towards a dog whose newest tricks,
Are centuries in hiding,
And futures told in days of old,
They’re confidently striding.
A jewelled knight is throwing wide,
The curtain of his master,
While this old town is beaten down,
With memories of disaster.
Though distant poles shine black and white,
The median in greying,
Whilst in the woods, obscured by trees,
The wicked wolf is baying.
People flock from miles around,
To watch the dancing piper,
Though harvest day is late, they say,
The crops could not be riper.
As lies pour from the grey man’s eyes,
The truth becomes a fiction,
And clocks embrace the broken face,
Of century old prediction.
Brittle wood is building trees,
That grow an inch a lifetime,
But fire blooms and then consumes,
The region’s latest war crime.
A million tons of damaged dreams,
Pour forth across the tundra,
Cover your ears, in case you hear,
The sound of human thunder.