Black bubbling streams of white water
Cutting a line through the haggard
And ancient landscape
That I wander in search of my past
Ruins looking for rest from the onslaught
The wind and the rain running their influence
Leaving the constructions
Shadows of their grandeur
This is the pasture of my youth
My old hunting grounds now lost too itself
The sky of inky blackness
Split asunder by the hammering storm
The sky ignites with fire
The tired and relentless force bellowing with enmity
Primeval in its construction it moves on
Casting shadows where none exist
Poised in the middle sits a temple
Its form unmarred by the winds and the rain
The quakes and the strikes
It stands alone
Cast in cold marble
The rain running along its curves
Intermingling with the details of a life
Lost in the storm
A form stands in its midst
Finding sanctuary only in the cold halls of its interior
Shivering and exhausted he stays awake
as he waits for a reprieve as the rain turns to snow
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