When the black dogs are massed against the dawn

What does it matter that no one listens to your chronicles of time.

Or remembers the low cold sky, that left you dark.

To you a room is a cell and those that sleep by the Fen have no tears for those who stay.

In this place there is a cruel famine of ideas, and each morning holds off its sunshine and birdsong.

In another place, far away a voice says that stars will fall from heaven. If not stars then dawns that will dazzle in your eyes.

The thing that I call living is just being satisfied.