The rim of rock on top of the hill

Is like the forehead of an old Indian

Staring endlessly and still,

Over this expanse of pain,

No seeing from his empty caves, no will.

The dead mask of his pride alone remains.

The land below all housed and paved

Belies the whisps of dead warriors

That echo through his dreams

The ridge along his face is dim,

His hate is cold and wears

Like rock wears in the wind

Endless, waiting patience without oracle

For the hollow revenge of the dead.