The path dwindle heavy lead in your bones
but feats are made equally proud of your history
telltales of infants weak and stillborn in soundless fury
of broken bones and shattered skin
entrusted hands chopped pieces of wood
heavy lead in your marrow

The land feeds our children.

Food and water, pine and dusted pillows underfoot
longing borders reaching across a map of adventures
seemingly untouched before those heavy solid steps
of brooding boredom and stretching wide horizon

The land owns you.

Nothing is what you believe it to be solemnly
just more and more of life where ever you walk
past is present and unfolding future blossoms
in your wake your steps is heavy on solid ground.