Four winds from every quarter prowl the lands,
Our lives submitted to the way they blow,
Till after judgement falls on us they slow
To gather up our dust in gentle hands.
Our lines are drawn in deserts and in grain,
We march in common time to guard each part
Or trace our boundaries with plow and cart,
But patterns we have made will not remain.
Atlas the plaything of geometry,
My wooden fortress, quadrilateral blooms,
Dictates my walls in tidy little rooms.
Do not trespass my boxed humanity!
How many souls have been ground into clay
For love of linear design professed?
Their blood adorns the barns in swathes of rye.
Moon sink sun rise sun set another day.
The hounds from north and east and south and west
Long for escape through window of the sky.
Photo credit: Ton Schulten