Body

Small people carry their land,
A landscape of white,
Little bumps and creases,
Unseen blemishes on their earth.

Traveling to the core,
A warm cave,
Yet to be molested,
Untouched by hands,
Invisible to those of foreign countries.

Marching through soft fields,
Between shallow valleys,
The whispers of previous dances,
Others who had stripped this world.

Crawling,
Two pale, quivering hills,
That long for their people,
Wait to be acknowledged,
Gaze proudly and still,
So shy.

Onto harder ground,
Masked and unmasked,
Bruised and adored,
Past lush flowers,
That bloom bright pink every Winter.

One more obstacle,
The double-doored tunnel,
Leads to two deep ponds,
Filled with familiar fish,
Streaks of green, blue, yellow,
Beneath the surface.

End the journey,
Fall asleep in the forest,
That smells of fresh fruit,
Recently picked strawberries,
That refuse to wither away.