Now the piper plays the
notes of earth:
the slow air of the
soil settling beneath our feet,
the centuries that have
run like water,
the season-spattered years
of crying, laughter,
wars and famine;
the bones beneath us,
the resurrected bones;
the notes of time long
gone, times never been.
He plays the cycles of
life and death, mountain to sea-bed,
flower to seed.
His notes are the snowfall
of white-thorn in June,
flurries of its petals
in January.
The air is an air long
gone, still coming;
he plays it slow; too
slow for running ears;
too low for ears never
listening.
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