If yet I live,
eyes stacked
fingers locked in my rusted beard,
never will I feel the kiss of eels
or the bread of old wisdom.
If yet I live,
bent low
a shadowy thing in forests aflame,
will you touch my elbow
and sing the deepest sadness?
If yet I live,
not once but thrice,
not soft but long and into the dawn,
and your face catlike and strong.
If yet I live,
three days a gift
and the fourth day gone
to fly and never touch the burning earth.
If yet I live,
I will swim in the mud of agony
and touch the sun
and show you my heart.
If yet I live.