A poem undated

Oh --if we could only
tell them all
to go the Hell--
if we could sail
the avalanche;
fly above the storm and
beyond the biting wind;
Smoothing crumpled mountains
with our tails.
Perhaps we win,
then--
Whatever the stormy tides
throw at us
become treasures.
But no.
We bend,
silent,
Before the wind...
burdened
beneath the earth
on our backs.
The patch of soil
we call our flesh.

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