Mammoth wakes up
That December, the month of lasting cold!
Half-awake, skull-capped, in the lazy sun, that mossy mammoth, in history’s fold
Moss is bristling green, in biting dew, as we know
Not this dull black, as this mammoth has been, over ages; see a very old tired man grow
Compellingly, on the shoulders of his divine debris, above the winters’ snow
A spread of morning pleas, by souls reclining to a distant past
“My great grand mud, many posterity’s blood, so be it, my soul’s daily breakfast”.
Call of faith
The mammoth calls, with an unflagging shout, still five times a day, from his vintage bed
Screeches past that voice, like an arrow thru his sons’ hearts, Caressing blood,
From a quiver rusted
“Come my sons! Rest your restive souls, spent on holy chase, have my cud,
That I burnt into, your divine bread”.
With splintered eyes…
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