Though I love it
Drumming overhead…
But it seems too much
And again too little
Filling gauges to overflowing
Washing away the dreams
Of gardens and groves
Carving and scarring
It wakes me
But not now filled or satiated
But rather fishing for breath
It has turned mean in this age
Vengeful
Moving us to higher ground
Hills heaped with uncertainty
Changing both mountain and valley
Changing in a new rhythm that
Will make a new dance.
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