penguins are the monks of ice
penguins are the monks of ice
their bodies tabernacles of the body and blood of chicks other lives are closed to them under the net of moons they keep chanting words for home their stillness is movement their feathers the cloth of saints if a penguin stops thinking about his egg it rolls away and you can hear the ice in the amniotic fluid the air sac the yolk fiercely converting the chick to a tiny cup of bone and all this time the wind the sound of a playground watched by hawks
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