My body lies inexorably deceased, defeated.
In a past which stretches not behind me, I have sat with comrades - their physical figures never by my glance attended. I have lain with them by the fire - the sky as only blanket, greatest blanket. Bushes spotting the earth like dots of hair over a man's ill-shaved cheeks, I have eaten exotic bread as domestic, I have heard the music of a language never danced to, felt the blades of a morning without.