Have traveled it fifty years. The far

Borders on might return from wise

Have sighted only, but know how steep they are.

Twice looked over. Even now, inside my eyes

Shut, can bring back printed plain

What's down there. Words for it, no. Vain.

Played around mirrors, saw my yellow darken

Long before it grayed, said my father's sound

In my throat, echo to make a man hearken.

Wandered northeast of Unitarianism, found

Myself following me, putting foot down strong

On my boot-marks, or his, the stride long.

Poetry drifted this landscape, signal smoke

From the burning that never dies, rising

A running body of air shaping its cloak.

Orders given, if the voices advising

Have been loud, have fallen on me rain

And dried. Of all effort, noise is vain,

Have listened. They say I seem not to hear,

Face shows nothing. Tree-bark, or rock.

But because wherever I am, I am too near,

Listening to blood-beat and beating clock.

In my country the silences make song.

In my country distances are very long.