I follow the train smoke of day's approach
through every scrape the brambles have bled me.
The hearts of the champions smash inside
their chests. Hides have been punctured
many times by the lawless mountain thorns.
The giants grapple with the mountain thorns
as they walk from the mountains.
They pull illusions from the clouds.
I take passage on rivers carved
from their toil.
It is a great vision to see
the wolf or the eagle that escapes the pull
of the giants. I toil in their shadow.
My sight is temporarily blinded by sweat.
Only then is my vision beclouded by realism.