I want to put down what the mountain has awakened. My mouthful of straw.
I want to stand still but find myself moving from patch to patch. There’s a low
In my throat. I sink to my knees tired or not. My hair a charcoal fire. What
Man could live with this? When I am forgotten, the valley floor will be
The valley floor. Smoke will rise from the limbs without me. Without me.