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Tunkashila - Portrait of a Young Man as The Artist — LiveJournal
You are whispering.
Even in the quiet places
where we danced between the veil
your voice is subdued.
My ears were well tuned
to your rhythm, thunder drums on the plains.
That was before an ice age passed,
glaciers thoroughly ripping us apart.
Now, standing on the tundra
with my fire burning dim
I fear for us. There
are no places for crow to perch
and I cannot sheer passage,
my silver knife dulled
and green with corrosion.
I have not copper to give,
nor the courage to redeem it.

Rip my body to rebuild me
in tunnels through which
I have suffused.
Trauma is snake magic
and gives the euphoria of facing
the dauntless dawn.
Speak to me and mend my broken ears

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