A poem by Badalle. "Behold these joyful devourersThe land laid out skewered in silverCandlesticks of softest pewterRolling the logs down cut on endTo make roads through the forestThat once was-before the logs(Were rolled down cut on end)—We called it stump road and weCalled it forest road whenOur imaginations starvedYou can make fans with ribsOf sheep and pouches for baublesBy pounding flat the earsOf old women and old men—Older is best for the ear growsFor ever it’s said, even whenThere’s not a scrap anywhere to eatSo we carried our wealthIn pendulum pouches wrinkledAnd hairy, diamonds and gemsEnough to buy a forest or a roadBut maybe not bothEnough even for slippers ofSupplest skin feathered in downLike a baby’s cheekThere is a secret we knowWhen nothing else is leftAnd the sky stops its