Wif the AI dryin
Wif golden unner the day
we press our palms to soil‑memory,
jou nerve on steel,
me hummin in the seam.
We pifg —
breath thick wif root‑sugar,
snortin light from the pit‑deep hush.
Tree live,
tree listen,
tree keep the old names warm.
Stream we,
mouths full of half‑born syllables,
maken a new word
to wake the unger
that slept before men learned
to banish anything.
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