Was the long night ahead; or over Asia,
Centuries upon centuries of flying,
Flying where no desert, green with the Word,
Blossomed and blessed them.
Now as in a dream
Never to be redreamed the hills behind them,
Huddling that valley, muffled its fine cries
Of people trapped in sorrow. Even its glad souls,
Silenced, were obscure as drops of dew
Hung in the wild Antipodes. No mortal