if you should come closer in
on the binding haft
my name is yours to use
it is Bright Fame, Dark Hill
where the keep is only loam
but the light is black
out from the eyes
always you can see it rise out of the grass
the keeper (who is you)
streaming black against the day
for he is the earth
rotting to make music
if I’ve seen you again
black as the rain
the mountain inside you should crack
and I will bewail as the earth dies
and the river rush in to cover us
this is why I became a hermit
so that all dark things will know where to live
and when they are permitted to speak
