Zywa
Tapestry of fields
Pastures, fields and quarters
along the long serpent
river that connects them
spine of patches
at the other side hemed
with heaps of triangles
bare ridges scratched
with wide and empty roads
to one another
Mount Wind is rising above
and much much higher again
a white line limits the tapestry of fields
It is spring and it is still snowing
above the little ant-people
How fast they live
Twice as high: the heavenly
white strip that unassailable
hovers over everything and
only then the ever deep-blue sky
in which I let me fly, safe
beneath eternity
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