Poem: Cottages
Wide, dirty swathes
of grey are there
under the mountains
and over them
where clouds and dust
become the horizons
of distant scenes;
No architect planned
their facades and they grow out of the soil,
tumuli of mud and
dung blended with straw dreams-
these cottages know
something
about the seasons,
the song of the thrush,
about the hearts of
men and the bellowing of oxen
in far pastures;
As stolid as
peasants, they quietly sit,
oblivious to the
haste of centuries.
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From Riverbeds Flowing, 1999 ed (an earlier version appeared in an edition of A Sad Piper but it was extensively revised thereafter)
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