Three shadows on the hill
from one the sap runs red,
Pierced water pours and spreads
and the gnarled roots, have their fill
The bough supports its thicket crown,
veins pulse, the bark punctured,
branches aching, bleeding dew.
A severe weight bears down.
A blackened bleak sky cracks,
spilling time and grains of truth.
The land pauses, utters the line
from the clayed soil he comes back