Fragments of papyrus flutter into the gorge
At floor level the twenty first century poets
Gather to capture the words, as though
They were the petals of snowdrops
Fear is at a distance
Fear is always at a distance
So beats my bumpy heart
So well the beads of sweat
Upon my furrowed brow
One dance step after the next, in and out
Of the skipping rope, to the music of whistle and drum
The twenty first century poets words are gathered
As though they were the echoes of the sunspots
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