My lifeblood pools alone
along the forest's rooty twists,
where orchids cling to stone
and sup the alcove's heady mists.
A needle plucks the liquid calm-
reverberations flood
the image captured by its plane.
I sink my knees into the balm
where crossroads yield to mud
before the pour of Nature's veins.

My home is not a place,
it is the hollow shaped by flow-
the pawprint in the wake
of hunts abandoned long ago.
A curtain always opening
before an empty house,
this waterfall will never freeze.
Ulangi's waters bubbling
from tributary mouth,
the future rainbowed on the breeze.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Phaestian, in the year 976 AF.