Photo by Cajeo Zhang on Unsplash

This silk road through the mountains,
These sundry stops, and stinks,
This rising into fury,
This slinking into think.

This edge of trees and wildings,
This glazing of the sun,
O! the spreading stench of wolverine,
O! Missy dead by the hand of her son.

This stink of flesh uneaten,
This sighing of the dove,
A game of death and stillness
And the falling out of love. 

Beginning is the end, my friend,
On common days or foul,
As destitute of love, my friend,
As the hooting of the owl.