Zywa
According to the priests in Sanctuaries
Cooing pigeons in the trees
of Mother Earth and Heaven
the home of the Spirit
whose breath quietly rustles
in the leaves, tapping the bronze
like charivari music mocking us
The oracle priests listen
and make sanctimonious faces
Whispering they deliberate
to pronounce riddles
with sense and authority
about matters of the soul and politics
here in the woods on the mountains
between the eternal snow
and the shores of the sea
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