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;

beg friendly demons to fade their homes
into the dark, whisper unwanteds away.
But somewhere, the Watch will knock.
The door unlock, creak wide.

Which home will give shelter
to the Black Watch on this night?
Whose house hold a smiling family
of bones come morning?