I am discontent
like the calling of twilight
when it illuminates the dark cross of stone on the Cnicht.
Some lowly animal howls its last
in desperation below on cold crags.
Alone, without a heartbeat to soothe
not a single touch to reassure,
an invisible hand to cup a breast,
only waxing moonlight,
a cold companion on restless nights.
Somewhere in the wilderness a kite screams,
in the dark her cries are lost in translation,
forgotten in the trickle of stream down to sea,
brushed aside as wind tickles read,
ink runs dry in the pen.
All warmth radiated away,
life sucked from barren marsh
yet I hear
our language breathe