REGION OF MEMORY  

There is a mountain, its servitude is great.
Pleasure comes in sleep as colors shift;
a sound of hidden rivers strikes deep. 

At night the body rushes with cold water. 
The exhausted drink at the brink of an abyss. 
They drink exhausted as water rushes through.
They are a mountain whose sound is moved by
         the water. 

Snow dapples a timber-line where we see
smoke from huts of the great people who live
        where the servitude is great. 

Unbounded and alone is the spirit. Soon
it will be the child in an abandoned hut.

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