Arms in kilometer sleaves roll over milky hills.
Arms, miniature armies, fingers march, one, two, three, on and on.
Broken fists stay silent, humble in the absence of a beat
lack of anger, pulpit and common meat.
But no artificial border, barbed wire or bodies of water
can prevent these arms from reaching towards the weak,
burning hands snap swan necks with a grinning handshake
all in one blink.
Step after step, these feet automatically move ahead,
tendons might disconnect, muscles might overheat,
but if our feet know fear they will hum to the rhythm
of a predetermined beat.
Follow the lead of the amputated sheep.
Strut loud, strut down the street until these
caloused soles bleed.
In a cavity, in a cave of riches and bleached bones
lives an old troll. All day he sulks, sits in the back
on his flesh throne.
Sometimes he cusses or yells about
how much he hates dying alone.