I am the land. My blood is the sap that runs through the branches of the tree. My breath is the wind that rustles the leaves and makes waves in the grass. My hands and feet are the hills and the mountains. My soul is the sunlight that warms the ground.
The people call me by many names; names of their own devising. I have nothing like a name.
I do not speak to them. I ask nothing, desire nothing. They imagine me walking amongst them, as if I were man or an animal. I pity their lack of imagination.