Over dry hills
The lions flew,
Hot wind bearing them lift.
With sand in face
And clouded view
The rider held his gift.

Descends the beast
From dunes to trees,
A shrouded forest tall.
Within the haze
Beneath the breeze
Preparing for his fall.

Undying dark
Formed in the air
As branch held back the sun.
A pulsing light
Of yellow fair
Shone bright from lanterns one.

Following paths
The rider stood
And murmur did the light.
“Before our curse
This forest could
Escape awaiting night.”

Jonathon Best 2009©