The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back; Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.

I have gone into the waste lonely places

The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back; Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.

Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire

And I rejoiced in being what I was.

May my silences become more accurate.

Teach as an old fishing guide takes out a beginner.