My thirst for land resonated in this plain. You must hold on to its bucking heart and learn to sing and feel and understand it through its poets and minstrels. I also dreamt of being a troubadour, like the mythical Florentine, “Cantaclaro” who, horse bound, sang verses about the flatlands. I also dreamt of moving from job to job, cattle herd to cattle herd, crossing through swollen rivers and dust. I also dreamt of love scattered on the range, of friends and families, the affect become reason to approach certain rivers and plains. I dream of turning my wanderings into my place.
My heart learned to light up like the stag’s sun.
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