an old man stands on a bloodless altar,
silver spades gleaming in his eyes.
he parts his hands,
raising his fists to the defeated sun,
as if he, himself, holds the string to heaven,
or can starve the stars from the sky.
yet like wolves–silent, loyal, waiting–
with sunken eyes,
and faces stained from mud and shadows,
we watch him,
making his offering,
giving the sun as his only sacrifice.