In the Naryn region of Kyrgyzstan
The pebble on the road contains The entire landscape, the hills Wrinkled and rough down to the plains. When you shrink down to the size Of a quark, you see the vibrating String, the vibrations that ring, The very part of you that stands creating. And through the window you see The sun, you are the sun, a mote, A sky. Then the heat shimmers And distracts you to your overcoat, You have lost your wallet, you Have lost a hand, you take A step but have no foot, you Splinter, you fall, opaque, Unhealed, shrunken, wild, you think You are a flaming star—but no, You are a pitted moon. But a star Flares, flames, it streaks a glow That silvers the sky, till in The forest you read by its light, Which is the furthest halo, the story Of the princess freed from her plight.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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