Early, just before the day notices me, scars me again,
comes The First Wound driven up from the earth
and speaks coldly, in a chilled and lightbroken night:
I am the wind-extinguished light,
the dearest sorrowfriend you met,
all those left traces in the marsh
The Second Wound, cast around self-defence,
gorged in a hopelessly coldstricken embrace
that has soon used up all of this vulnerability
and reached in to Time to be awaken as bent:
Sorrow has played too long on its own board
with Life set up to become a fickle nothing
(Hidden times were fully rooted in advance
as Fate now hands in herself as fully written.)
Final peels of pity scraped down
A cold grip soon to be turned right
There, over this hushed dusk
a trembling candle flickering
risen as shimmering: Clarity,
Home to the very last wound