Skeleton

I am the prisoner of the ice voices
That talk to me with a lashing air
About cold and dark lands
Where forever, I will find my grave.

Chilled by the cold speech,
I let myself be hurt by the iciness of their words,
While I stir in the extinguished embers of life
With a long bone from my leg.

With a strange black hat
And with an old rag as a suit,
Without companions to urge me on their way,
I remain a skeleton in a clay tomb.