You own no coffin to drag across the snow,
just a dog shivering in the dark.
Mother-tongue you’re heavyhearted;
garlic blackens in the copper pan.
A low drone rises from the hearth.
Winds tangle throughther all confused.
Aeolus blows but Babel’s left alive.
Daughter-tongue: creak of the juniper.
Your shudder at birth’s a shard chipped off
a storm among the planets
and the clouds, the clouds blindly race
obliterating from the skies all trace of lineage.