and to him who dwells therein,
my aloneness is a crowded market-place and my silence a confusion of sounds.
The voices of yonder valley still hold my ears,
and its shadows bar my way and I cannot go.
my peace is but a whirlwind and my enchantment an illusion.
The taste of blood is clinging in my mouth,
and the bow and the arrows of my fathers yet linger in my hand and I cannot go.
my dreams are a battle fought in twilight and my desires, the rattling of bones.
or unless all men become free?
which I with my own beak have built for them?