I saw him walking out beyond the field
in that ghostly hour between dark and light.
The waist-high stalks parted for him, then sealed
his path behind, like water. He was white
as cotton, his broad face framed with black hair,
which made his features stand out in relief;
I saw him young but grim--in that dark stare
each of his years had written down its grief.
He did not hesitate, like one who knows
no matter what he does he's going to die.
The field grew dark, and deepening shadows
obscured his distant steps. I don't know why,
but I called out a name. He stopped and turned,
our eyes met, and the wheat between us burned.
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