Poetry, recent
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the bird made the wolf flinch.

All things in the wild are wild things, and humbled by wilderness.

All things
made to eat,
and also
to be eaten.

All things
fortunate,
and also
flawed.

Balanced,
perhaps designed,
for the sort of desperation
that springs all beings forward;

for the sort of desperation
that makes all beings present;
knowing that fate lies
under earth.

Bound only to their needs,
they are free from god;
free from ego.

All wild beasts bow to one another. The light is the only thing left untouched for now.

 

 


photograph: Blaz Poljansek

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