The Black Watch ghosts between the hills
on silent horses whose hooves
stir no dust on the bone-dry road.

Beneath their thatched roofs villagers cower,
wrap themselves in their own shadows;
rub ash in their eyes to hide the tell-tale shine

as they shudder under beds of straw.
Young mothers clutch their newborns close:
a babe who can’t be silent may be silenced.

Those still cursed with scraps of Talent
cut their childrens’ fingertips
and draw blooded sygils above their doors;