By Crazy Retasu

The watcher stands in the meadow;
It is a constant, unchanging place-
Of this world, but located elsewhere.

The tall grass waves in the sun, and
The shallow river flows down the hill
To the edge of this world
Where the dark firs line up,
Green-black against the clear blue sky.

The meadow never changes.
The watcher blinks.

The sun, once gold, is scorching.
The grass, once soft, is scratchy.
The river, once fresh, is muddied.
The hill, once gentle, is steep.
The firs, once strong, are breaking.

The sky, once clear, is desolate.

The meadow never changes-
But the watcher will.