We each own something terrible,
But we know it not at all.
It bites at us and fights with us;
Daring us to fall.
The conscious is a fearsome beast—
Says things we hate to hear.
It growls at us and howls at us;
Warning it is near.

In the darkness something’s lost,
It was broken with the frost.
In the mountains an echo rings,
Calling to forgotten things.
On the wind the whisper sighs,
And a shadow, falling, dies.
In the weeping of the rain,
A high wail goes up again.
In the silence of the night,
He searches without a light,
To find everything he's sought
In the world that he forgot.