Bone-white noon. The plain holds its law. The kid goes spare through the scrub and stone. Ash in the mouth, hunger in the bone. He learns the world by what it takes away. The wound. The spoor. The coyote's bay. No mercy in the plain. Only the sun and the spoor. What stands upright gets bent again. What looks away gets poor. War is god. Dance in the dust. War is god. The judge you trust. War is god. The earth goes quiet. War is god. The endless riot. War is god. Whatever stands without my leave — exists without me, and I will make it grieve. Mesquite, river-bottom, smoke and steel. The hand goes empty. The wound is real. Night comes low over the country of scars. The kid keeps moving under dying stars. The judge turns the wheel of his own making. Ledgered in dust — no sleep, no waking. Immaculate, bald as a principle, cold as a knife. He says the world is force. He says nothing dies twice. He will never die. He will never die. In the dawnless heat he keeps his places. Still the kid went on — a small hard spark that the dark could not eat. War is god. Dance in the dust. War is god. The judge you trust. War is god. The earth goes quiet. War is god. The endless riot. War is god. Whatever stands without my leave — exists without me, and I will make it grieve. Bone-white noon. The plain remembers none. The dance goes on. The judge has won. What is born of such a country learns the bitter art: to carry its own ending like a stone against the heart.
