Above this earth, this ancient earth
Which down below is toiled by hand, by human
Bodies bent and fixed at the waist:
An eagle’s view, o’er hours of flowers and hills,
Fading to distance, to relic.
Uninterrupted by modern machines,
By the noise of engines, the inorganic.
Instead, the distant clink of a cowbell;
The songs of crickets in the grasses;
The pounding of breeze between trees.
On top of this corner of Europe,
Crowned with a watchful stone cross,
Caught in this afternoon’s moment,
I found antiquity.
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