The very sky fell to greet a wandering shade
Only by a falling light
His form and frame were made
Calling, with his silence
A Solsticine, on whom
None could find reliance.
What of this world walked with the fog
But he, small,
In mist, walks without his giant
At the fields of Arcad’
To golden plains
A Dasein, in which nothing is flawed
Standing at media
Fit for the amused, too tall to walk
On and on, on shoulders the sun takes its leave
Its rest.
To giants the day is drudgery, when one dawn falls
And moon, I, dreading it won’t find me
My idler goes in wistful mists
On to the breaking light
Onward to the reddened night
My idler goes in wistful mists
Silent, absolutely.