Dark are the ways of my enduring,
black is my hand against the sun.
Dark lies the heart in the live breast burning;
then it is done.

Gulled by the winds of my first faring,
into calmed latitudes I steer,
all from my skull's round cabin staring
at the smooth face of fear.

Deep I must go to find my country,
deeper then the eye or kiss can pierce;
deep as the heart, past all returning,
the way lies dark and fierce.

There I will find a river flowing,
green through the trees and swift in the sun:
to that bright cove of my enduring
all my dark ways run.
by K. Pitchford