I walk untrodden fields
in my bare cell
- seaweed and tar
dry on moss cold stones
in the core of wet caves;
the cold spreads soundlessly
yet sweat bites into my cracked lips-
let me wipe the salt off...

I lost my way, you see,
since the cold set in
- the traces of red dust
are far from touch
yet unreachably near
beyond the spikes and stakes
of this barrier of frost-
though nothing has changed...

I hear subdued voices
outside the door
'look at him shivering bareskin
before the high tide we'll move him
to a warmer cave for winter'
'is it true that
when the woods were still standing
he saw his ancient kin ascending from the waves?'
'who knows where lies the truth?'

move me?
oh, will I ever walk the earth again?