I haven't yet taken
mountains by surprise
only birds hover
at feet, and the wild flower
grows in bits and pieces
on head of yearnings
as poetry rivets to another
world in a country where
a crescendo builds on heaps
of ruins. Artifacts of life
are slowly withering Lord
and history's stymied voice
is distraught. Yet the hills
where I live look calm, unruflled
as Spring's wind enters into their
hollowed bodies of time. The rocks
stand erect, with undercut bellies.
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