The Losing Soul Poem by George the Great VIII
The Losing Soul
I cannot explain
The smell of a fertile sod
Of my river-land.
Across the rainfall,
Behind this fine of feeling of being
Surrounded by life-works
And lasting tone of an Indian flute!
I cannot explain the gulches, the buttes,
The patches, the monotony of the Rocky Plain,
Rustling of grass by a special
Kiss after a long night in the Sacred Hill.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
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4/26/2024 8:48:40 PM # 1.0.0.1119
