Blood, bones and wood.
Steel, stones and rope.
Flowed across the world and into the river’s mouth.
Cut, burnt, buried, built.
Fields sweat, bleed and weep.
And so crops rose.
Out of these fluids, these lives
A bittersweet melody rose.
A longing for home with no chance of arrival.
First, flat third, fourth, flat fifth and back to first.
Different soils, different bloods, different times.
Knitted to past, present and future.
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