I was not born,
but like an angel flew through celestial skies.
Mine was not the waiting,
I was carried, swift, across the snowy peaks:
they too are eternal, speechless.

And if I hear you laugh
I hear also the howl of the wolf
its yellow eyes are fire.
Do not doubt my certainty.
I am that beast. There is no snare.
I entreat you to cast off your cynicism.

Or what if the mountains were to crumble?
Could I be destroyed by such playthings?
Oh, I am plaintiff, a mere waif,
but I can catch a tumbling rock,
embrace an avalanche, for I too exist.

And in the forest a deer stalks its own shadow,
and a pretty child picks posies,
and the fungi are livid red.
I alone see this freshness.
I alone smell this sweetness.
I alone am virgin.
The dust is desert dry and covers the back of time.
I have made my strike and now I seek the light,
the warmth and the lost sun.
I am so fast. I have willed all pain away.
Nothing now, but the crushing force of my boot.

Copyright: RESERVOIR MEDIA MANAGEMENT INC, ROUGH TRADE PUBLISHING
Writer(s): MARTIN GLOVER, PENNY RIMBAUD