I read Zygmunt Bauman, but I think of the Aeneid and
                                                                  the seven years of wandering, and
the Nashua river that keeps flowing beside me, and the storm from last night, and
the tree blown down, which is still on the ground, lying  as if it was tired and went to sleep,
the only difference now is that the roots stand with their mouth opened up speaking with the clouds,
                                waiting for the rain, waiting for the night,
begging