10 March 2012


Left to the mercy of the weather god
Drenched in the rhythmic rain
A man – a foreigner perhaps
Dark and curly – straight and bent
Is lost in the open fields and dales
He carries the casts of his funeral face
And the relics of fallen saints
Always a stranger – stranger than life
He quarries great stones of remembrance
Once he was this – once he was that
Now a stranger in these parts

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