Winds bloat on the branches like a long restrained urge.
Silently you sink into the shadow-streaked forest
where winter petrifies the birds tearing themselves to pieces
for their bleary significance, your spirit circles like a baby monkey.
It is growing dark, the gallows stand like an empty door in your mind,
its shadow falls in your way. Tiredness looms behind your back;
if you glance across your shoulder, evil phantoms arise;
the waste country before you greens with spreading mould.