Harvest in the Land of the Dead

When They Are Gone The apprentice  to  the sorcerer  is grasping  tiny mementos  muttering incantations  by  caravan light  over  wisps  of hair  and  fragments  of bone  lying among  ashes  in the cold grate  blackbirds  are  singing  everywhere  in Kiffisia  rushing  into the garden  she finds  memory  in dust  conjuring the