Where are you now?
Weights bear me down.
Who built this path—
Who planted this dying field?
Dirty wind calls
as the locust sings;
Tonight will breathe more cold air
than an Arctic Spring.

The wolves call out
and my spirit knows
I ought to move.
This heart wants to rage and shout;
So why do these eyes turn down
to the place where all light
has already gone out?

Where are you now?