Where all my wishes die

Poem #46

On the prairie, the wind quiets,
the sun sinks like a broken clock,
the horizon line cuts off the world,
there is a smell of burning wood in the air.
The heart beats slowly, as if in half-sleep,
dust particles dance in the air.
The wheels of the wagon creak like the bones of an old man,
and my horse crunches the herbs, calm.
I smell the earth, warm, dry,
silence flows over me like old blankets on a winter night.

But then I see —
a lone figure, like a ghost, in the shade of a cactus.
His hand trembles, but not from fear,
but from that hunger that wolves have.

A bandana covers his face.
I look into his eyes, dark as wells,
but the eyes betray more than he wants to say.
And he speaks without words: “There is no room for weakness.”
He challenges me, the world around us goes quiet,
as if waiting for the result.

I reach for my gun.
The world stops for a heartbeat,
then explodes like an explosion in a mine.
The first shot — pain like a flame,
bullet in the rib, heat spills under the skin,
but I hold on, squeeze the flask like my own life.

I can't fall, I can't stay here.
I fire a shot - and everything goes out.
He falls, like a shifted vertical plank.
His shadow falls, into the dust, into the ground.

The silence returns, but it's different, thicker,
like smoke that will never dissipate.
I lie back, looking west,
Where the sky bleeds crimson.

I look at my hands.
I survived, but something remained in me.
Are they the ones that really killed him?

The road drags on,
and I already know it won't be the last time.