We had left  early morning for sight of the phallus stone
Dragging our feet through the stones of ice mountains
Our horses plodded on with us some times and without,
Our behinds   aching with their  bony backs in contact.

Old men sat hunched up in two feet long wooden boxes
On young men's shoulders , latter feet dragging stones
The boxes felt like our old men's journey of no return
To  a stone phallus to be bathed in tears in the snow hills
Where they will join a mountain stream and flow as river
 To return to  plains and land in the seas of their villages.

The mountains were cruel and beautiful to our tired feet
The horses zigzagged their way up with their droppings
Filling the cold  air with a warm smell mixed with bodies
Their tails swished unending imaginary flies in  behinds
As they were lost to their green dreams of the mountains.

Old men paddled  all the way up in their wooden boxes
Crouched as in their mother's stomachs,with eyes shut
From their lips came muttering sounds like buzzing bees
That filled the empty silence of the hills in the morning.
It felt  as if  it was  a return to where they had started out
Where this  thing had begun, the sea of their first floating.


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