The World
I was walking in the world,
the beautiful and terrible world
at the foot of an airy, rocky, woody mount.
The grass was gold and
the sky was blazing blue
yet it had rained to flooding just then.
Streams galloped down the mountain,
roared over rocks,
dragged driftwood.
I looked down
and the worms…
What else should they have done? Drowned in the saturated gravel?
Yet now the worms were swept by the stream,
battered against sticks and stones or
drowning in the undertow,
bleeding from the slices in their sides.
Here, on one rock,
one worm, not yet bleeding,
clings for dear life.
It tries to catch the other worms as they are swept by.
Each one it grabs it feels up and down:
Perceiving the latter’s wounds, it lets go —
Why risk being pulled down with one who will die anyway?
Yet the stream is long and the source far and full
for a worm.
Thank you for reading
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