I dreamed of a cow up to her knees in brown water and a bull
on a high hill, hooves planted deep and able for all winds.
Bulging from his forehead was a sacred horn full of rightness
and foreboding; the enemy of all the mystics in the world.
The cow stayed on in the water. Weeds grew up around her
until she became a parody of herself.
Centuries came, millenniums; everything stayed the same
until the sacred horn was emptied of all presentiment,
until the earth cracked, weeds spread their seeds, anomalous and strange,
squalled into a brand new day where a small bird flew from cow to bull
and sang a song not heard in all their certain years.
A small bird sang that all she knew was she still flew.
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