See myself staggering through deep snow Lugging blocks of wood yesterday An old man Almost falling from bodily weakness Look down on myself from above Then front and both sides White hair - wrinkled face and hands It's really not very surprising That love spoken by my voice Should be when I am listening Ridiculous Yet there it is A foolish old man with brain on fire Stumbling through the snow The loss of love That comes to mean more Than the love itself And how explain that? A still pool in the forest That has ceased to reflect anything Except the past Remains a sort of half-love That is akin to kindness And I am angry remembering Remembering the song of flesh To flesh and bone to bone The loss is better
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