Written by Jack Andrew Cribb

Under the Mongolian steppe and Serengeti heat,
under mango grove and poppy field,
under ancient blessed wood once haunted by aurochs,
now haunted by aurochs,
lies a feral mother, skinless.

Her reach stretches around the globe,
grows the page and ink for the atlas,
is treasured, is hunted,

and in her depths we forget she is there,
both slumbering and awake,
in her depth we allow bronze lions to cover
where real lions used to roam.


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