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