narrative poetry

in all things not spoken of
winged shadows sweeping by
if the red slayer think he slays
eighty years have passed, and more
there is no escape by the river
along the banks
simply speaking
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
when i go back to earth
these be
i stand in the cold gray weather
now that i have cooled to you
uplifting, as the wind blew
be not false