Out there in Nepal, entire landscapes
Are wiped away, just a lot of scree, Just gray rocks, just paths that Go wrong, heaped up debris, Where porters carried knives, where It was dangerous to sleep, where The women huddled together, where Before dawn a rumble ruffled the air, The rocks shook, fissures Flew across the earth, and shook The caravans. The pikas trembled, Stunted hemlocks along a dry brook, And at night the freezing stars Called for rebellion, quakes, For war, overturning hillside Villages, fevers, aches And rot, until a wind blew Back from the south, jangled Doors, sap flowed into roots, Rain fell, knots were untangled, The villagers bent under piles of brush. Light flashed and darkness swallowed The valleys, winds rose and swooped, The sun rose and the hawks followed, The waterfall crashed, it rorared And cried, the path shone and glinted From the rain and the sahdows Were crisp and black and indigo-tinted.
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Yaacov David Shulman
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