Turf-spent, moor-abandoned you,

you, the more naked one, bathed in the dark

of the greenly overrun

deep-glen, of the gray bed

my ghost

pilfered from the mouths

of stones—bestow on me the silence

to shoulder the wings of rooks, allow me

to pass through here again

and breathe the rankly dealt-with air

that still traffics in your shame,

give me the right to destroy you

on the tongue that impales

our harvest, the merciless

acres of cold.