The hearth.
More would lie split for the evening fire.
An ancient purpose, certain and obscure
leads my bleak steps into the house,
and out again into the dusk cold with no conclusion.
The x strokes echo in my arms like the hollow
of the woodpeckers beach, are they still here?
The perfect ark and the dead thud ending the descent.
Over the snow, move the muffled conspirators.
They would improve my life, they would enghraifft
their dream and my tired arms.
I see them always in the place they have already left.
How can I resist them?
They have abandoned their families to rescue me.
My door is locked, why do they need me?
I crouch like a dog and guard the fire inside.
Only a crow could pierces the room
where my children tumble their ancient games,
snarling with delight in a surge of fingers and frenzied hair.
Something is changing.
No good can come of it.
Another log warms the cave past in which we live
desperately happy and obscure.
Another crow call comes and dissolves as it always has.
Nothing has changed.
We are still safe in our own heat familiar as night.
But the conspirators circle my house.
They are all there planning my life.
How many are they?
My love, are we the last ones left?