BarbariansThey come, and they go, and, when they have gone, the rain washes the land of their tracks, and their memory. The trees grow firm, and close together. Between, intricate brush, or mossy rock, inviting, and entangling. They come, mounted, on foot, in wagons, intent on conquest. The trees part, the paths open. Armies thrust and groan: the rain returns with the night. In the morning, they go, and, when they are gone, the mosses sleep, the trees enfold, the rain washes the land.