Feet facing the sun, teeth biting
the chill
I went through the seasons under this hill,
Felt the stones shift and the wheat roots growing,
Thought of my people and their hands mowing.
So this is the way they repay my yoke,
With this flint arrow that lodged where it broke—
Beaten and bundled to this house of bones,
Then left with this junk to outwait the stones.
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