The Most Simplistic Clue Comments

Born deep at Siberian woods, Where pines are of tar and of sheen. My early years are lost and crude. Taiga is so tall and unseen. So little is left to be said Of exquisite years of heights. We are spoilt and naughty, instead. We are kept by angels, at sight. I wonder if there exists A neighboring galaxy dark. Remembrances are sweetly stark. I catch that unsaid, distant gist. It is yet of some other mirth, This long story can't be briefly cut. You cannot recall your own birth. Your cradle, initial hut. You trust in what you truly see. You cannot stay, of weird creed. You are left, the prior, to seek, If you are compelled to that need. I yearn for my villages deep, None seems to reply as I cry. The cliffs over bays are too steep, And seas are hot, chalky and dry. There is no path back to home. That world disappeared for years. We pray in vain, to empty domes. The deity, our voice, scarcely hears. 2022
...
Read full text