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Chapter Three · Poetry & Sermons
Words from the old world.
He has made grown men cry. Read these slowly. He wrote them that way.
I.
The Wood Remembers
Before the blade bites,
the grain sings of centuries.
Of rain that fell when
kings were young.
I do not cut.
I merely reveal
what the earth hid.
Poem · 01 of 03
II.
Silence of the Lake
The water does not hurry.
It holds the sword.
It holds the sky.
We race against the clock,
forgetting that time
is only a river
flowing into the same lake.
Poem · 02 of 03
III.
The Spark
You bring me dead things.
Oak, ash, forgotten steel.
I strike the flint.
A breath, a roar.
And suddenly,
the forest breathes again
in your living room.
Poem · 03 of 03
“I do not write poems.
I overhear them, and write them down.”
— him, when asked