When the fishing boats arrive after days lost at sea ,
when the eagle is left stranded on a rock ,
with torn wings so it cannot fly ,
then prunes itself untill it is left to die .

When days of my comfort are no use to me ,
when loves great highways comes to an end .

Then how needless a friend ,
that finds me in rocks but makes not a sound ,
then better for him I can’t be found .

Better for me the rook finds its nest ,
than seeks out myself untill I find no rest .
then pecks away to feast on my flesh .

Better for it to find fish in the seas than to  beak  at  my brawn than    to bother me .
For its hollow bones gave it wings to fly ,
not flap around my head ,
untill exhausted falls to the ground to die .

Yet all these days I sit here alone ,
without what man might call a home .
A hermit watching the waves roll into one ,
then gently set to the west when my day is done .