I am a child of the east, a dweller

of pastures, a goat tribe. And indeed there’s more

than one tribe. A strong wind of people

blowing up my abode.  It’s rocky.  horrible.  shit passed thru

at some point; by wings turning over into blades.

My tomb and/or spring therein, “Job’s well.”

So say them all, made flowing

when struck.

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