The Almas

 

The Altai nomads sleep in skins,

And lay hot stones on melting snow.

We know the envy of their souls:

For generations we have watched.

 

Our altars pile from mound to moon,

To seasons of the thousand lives.

We touch horizons deep within:

Beyond the heart, beyond our time.

 

Beneath the grasslands work our roots.

Our feet kiss feet with mirror men.

We feed the sap of spirit pines.

We leave our skins on jagged rocks.

 

We raise our voices in the still:

The Altai nomads fade as dew.

 

 

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