Is this what this means?
The sun stretches long under the hill,
coolness creeps after, stealing the warmth of the sun disappearing,
and we are still from the same golden root, but 
our hands are not touching,
our knees are not crisscrossed with grass indentations.

Deep in the earth, in the warmth of the soil,
the sun reaches down in a thousand small places,
draws out the light, the glory of our faces.

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