a lemon being squeezed
juice sluicing into a glass
whirling wheels of a flying cart
behind hooves hammering into the dust
mud
stone
and grass
The steppe is green and vast
with an endless horizon
under the clear, blue sky
He has come far –
opens his fist
and goes the puff of wind off, free –
gone
The calloused palm remains ever open
never to close again
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