Why do you follow me,
your song like metal in your throat
and your small black eye that
searches for what is dead
below the crumbling cliffs?
And there in the pastures of my own making
you laugh at my enterprise
Do you know how I follow you,
wanting nothing but your secrets
to shower me with a sensible rain?
You are the keeper of the poet's vision
that ends with stones and bones
In your forgotten language
all is dust