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In the hour when the sickle moon harvest its grains of stars
dreams laid on bed nightmares on gown
as misty cloud steals into crystal ball

the day hides in its hide as forms bore shape
none thread her mill as silence reign
in silence awaiting the glorious call!

In this hour shadows stood on hill as the wind waft his heel
the priestly hooter foretells woes as her child slips away
like a bereaved mother, garment drown in dew

alas! Evil spins its web,
nocturnal guest seek asylum as the heralding cock
announces the call of his king.

written by Davington Johnbull

The Call

Author: admin

I am a member of the WRR editorial team.

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