X. The British Attack on the Arctic
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Of observation lying on the ground
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
Are muffled into silence that refuses
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
Dim, and die tonight?
The road, but not far enough ahead
Against this sky no longer of our world.
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
It's snowing, it's returning to a town
Swaying in unison beneath the snow,
Of observation lying on the ground
Beneath a pile of corpses, lying massed
Are muffled into silence that refuses
giddy as good kids playing hookey. Now,
Only a fox whose den I cannot find.
Of the matter of snow here. Both of us have grasped
Right, and appears from here to be overcome
With sun's warmth wasted on a stone,
Dim, and die tonight?
The road, but not far enough ahead
Against this sky no longer of our world.
Dreaming time has reversed, I watch drowned snow
That rings, with faithful tongue, its pious note
Or else, like us, sunk into some long gaze
Comes up with as a means to its own end.
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
