We are kindred spirits, we who walk the wild, high, windy slopes,
yearning ever to be free of all constraint that's
self-imposed. Under skies that glower, grim, foreboding,
lacking sympathy for intellect's desires, one walks and feeds
on ancient hate ambition's cold desires.
Power-ache or sword-point's thrust in colors brown as long-dried
blood imagined are for hours seasoned hot with sad and
overwhelming lust.
Cold mountain-tops marred with forests hard of columned stone that
glitters gold with silver threads are swept by winds that have
no name, that to the mountains peaks are fled. From cold,
dark desert nights come winds with stenchs foul of graveyards
whose obelisks are stakes to pin uneasy occupants of horrid
graves. Up from the sea; from the sands; from the green world
below to tops of mountains where they purify themselves by
leaving behind the burden of their stench.