The lamb screws in torrential rivers,
Unwilling to pass with barely a murmour.
Warm in the evening belly of Winter
Carried along through pastures dull,
It has broken dreams of becoming a wolf.
Collapsing countries seem so far away
It sees the stars go peaceful passed
The empty house; a white-washed wall
Clashing with the stones at the bottom
Which try to break the river's thrall.
He sometimes hears their dark homily
“We hunger for the lost mouth of the sea,”
Those jagged stones would turn him into meat,
But the blue wind is beating closer now
It glides and makes him bob above the surface.