Stopping here, little horse
The sweep of wind and evening promises
The snow, the village, the farmhouse
the woods, the frozen lake
dark harness bells, an easy wind
and miles to go
Stopping here, little horse
The sweep of wind and evening promises
The snow, the village, the farmhouse
the woods, the frozen lake
dark harness bells, an easy wind
and miles to go
(First published by Dead Snakes.)
I see your height, I feel your weight
And watch you sew, to hew the new.
Laid in my tomb, without a comb,
This awful rouge would I gouge —
In hubris is debris.
Boa Sr., the last speaker of the Bo language died Friday. She was eighty five and lived in the Andaman islands off the coast of India.
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