lying
with my back
against a haystack
with a small stream
creeping by behind the
shelter of long elegant reeds
waving to someone in the gentle
spring-filled breeze blowing from
the west I wonder if my soul could rest
from all its ramblings here beside the lowly
Spree which rises idles sometimes gallops through
the lands of the gentle Sorbs along the banks wild
otters fish and play beneath the slow but turbulent flow
and though they say that wolves do roam this nether land of
forests deep so deep the sun ne'er enters I know that there can
only one answer be as deer shy and clouds swirl past as if in fun
yes past yes present yes my future lies on this bog brown earth deep driven
