Weave the wind. I have no ghosts, An old man in a draughty house Under a windy knob.

Signs are taken for wonders. 'We would see a sign!' The word within a word, unable to speak a word, Swaddled with darkness.

After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions, Guides…

Here I am, an old man in a dry month, Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.