Standing in the shadow of the seven mountains—
No grapes to press,
No hay to mow,
No wheat to reap or plow.
The mind threshes past
The roots of absurdity,
Reduces to the ridiculous
The idea of death,
Headlong past abstract notions of starvation
To a realm, somehow here, and now.
And yet it is to be, to come.
And yet it has happened all before.
And we rejoice to know those seeds
Sown in sorrow are gone, forevermore.
-jenn long
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