I dream about cracking ice in Siberia
I think we left a man to drown
Dark chasm swallowing pale hands last
Not drowned but
Devoured by the sea
Absorbed in liquid night
I think we could have saved him
I think we didn't want to,

I dream we are still
Standing on the edge of new jagged cliffs
And the wind is a hail of bullets
Demanding entry to our bones
But we cannot move
I think we needed to watch him sink
Just another ripple in the wasteland,

I dream we are dark smudges on a plain of snow
No footsteps in the drifts
Nothing left behind
A sheet of glass between his hands and our feet
Does it matter that we are murderers if no one heard a sound?
I think quietly that it might.