It must be nearly four on this side of the road. With a great touch of import, Trundling through the semi-wet And gazing at the flints refracted in sod. A few meters across and there is succor, There is warmth, where the earth is Turned fresh. Very little keeps me thus From that solid solid open door.
Still, I should be a fool to with a one Hand cast resolve into the nighted water Of the soul and with the other Craft the very means for its Exhumation. As I turn around I close The door and shamble into dawn.