North I go
to deeper cold and longer night,
once I was certain but I lost hope.

East is better?
The dawn in my eyes does blind me,
who now knows the way?

South to Patagonia
sheep and trees riled by the wind,
then to rocks crouched in the cold sea.

West where the sun rules the late hours
and we on tiptoe stretch high
to postpone the losing of the light.