The interlude of frequent intolerances

She was there
on the mountain
gripping Her hand
before the captured peoples
She saw the stalwart tidings
in the firm abyss of the smoking strangers
too hungry to be indisposed
too enamored to be sure of Her intentions
but I saw Her,
preparing for a confrontation –
and no longer reluctant, not any further,
to take Her peoples home
When the wind catches up with Her
It will have forgotten Her name