for Yuvan A man with a pasture and no woman,
the moon is his drum. His horses are stone horses,
cloud horses. Where does that road go,
the road of a wild dog,
hobbled mule,
the road of a drunken man,
a crying man
lying down in the road,
where can such a road go? His broken heart,
the carcass of a she-goat.
What will become of her child? Even the wind doesn’t know,
keeps asking.
Maybe the stone knows,
maybe the grass. Someone is counting his goats,
a man is singing his goats
out to pasture
in all that is left of language.
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