The sky, the sun, her footsteps in the snow,
cradle of old, forsaken beatitudes,
are coming back to fill your interludes
with all the broken brights you'd wish to know.
And then what's left of life is rushing through:
the waiting, the quiet sense of duty,
the lost strength, the feeble bolts of beauty,
the ageless sand that's piercing through the blue.
You will not get out: the woodbine's cracking
Bastiani's walls; all the tartars smacking
the gates, there's nowhere else to go.
You'll soon know what's the price of solitude,
but now, to fill the final interlude:
the sky, the sun, her footsteps in the snow.
