There’s something in her words I can’t identify

Yet it’s there, silent, embedded

dark under the damp soil.

To where did the raven fly?

Mercilessly out of the sky.

To where does the stream flow?

Frivolously taking my soul.

On the empty atlas she stands, sharp but tender, whole but worn,

And I continue blessing her, into the realm

of which no men would’ve ever heard.

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