“ We begin in the dust of the valleys, in the long days and the sounds of your generations, digging and constructing and fighting, the hollow slapping of their fists against the meat of the men they beat into the dust. The stray dogs that lapped their spilled blood, while flies hummed and flickered along their mangy skins, their bulged ribs. In the sullen noise of your generations in the dust, in the gathering of canvas tents and smoldering fires, in the din of work crews, in the young grasses ...bent over for the winds, in the stiff dead grasses upright as if scorched, in offices of canvas and tarpaulin, in the dull heat, in the straining of grasshoppers, lost in the yellow gauze of the sun. Your generations who constructed until the reaches of the land were strung with wires, and it was said, “Soon a man may die on one shore and those on the other shore shall know instantly.” The sounds of grunting and heaving, the flicker of naked skin molting in the sun. Your generations who will gather along these landscapes of dust.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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