This book is a muscle
Pulled from Time's living body
It hangs the high plateau sky
On a corner-pole of history
A hoofprint up there
Soaked up all the swirling weather,
All the vicissitudes of human life
An azalea has said all there is to say
About a thousand years of grief and joy,
Sad farewells and joyous reunions
Bend down and pick up a song of two halves half sad, half happy
One pure teardrop
Cannot contain range upon range of tall mountains
One silver hair cannot stem river after long river flow
Looking back, winter frost carved deep rifts
In this story's skull's temples
So many voices fell in
And never climbed back out
Anyway, ears are rusted now
In the vastness of space-time
Who was it that wove their blood ways
Into a web
And kept dredging up sleep-talk and secrets
That once slipped from their waist
Wipe the sunset glow once
And the silhouette of the last horse-caravan
Ascends heaven's blue dome
