The slide on the hill knows the breadth of the sky.
The moon in still, knows the song of the peak.
But you do not! No you know far less!
The dance of the rain, knows the rhythm of calm.
The sun at its height, knows the heart of the howl.
What do you say then, when asked of these things?
Ha can you say once or twice, for I see.
A lull of a string bound tightly to hope,
The song of the wild, lifted high upon night.
There is not answer for you to know,
No not a word, nor slight of either occur.
For you are the damned the lost the unsure,
And you make your home in the hopes...
I know not.