SO you are lost to me!
Ah you, you ear of corn
straight lying,
What
food is this for the darkly flying
Fowls of the
Afterwards!
White bread afloat on the
waters,
Cast out by
the hand that scatters
Food untowards,
Will you come back when the tide
turns?
After many
days? My heart yearns
To know.
Will you return after many
days
To say your say
as a traveller says,
More marvel than woe?
Drift then, for the sightless
birds
And the fish
in shadow-waved herds
To approach you.
Drift then, bread cast
out;
Drift, lest I
fall in doubt,
And
reproach you.
For you are lost to me!