I walked an hour beneath a wet-ink sky,
On parchment and the traces of a way,
And followed songs I'd heard when it was day...
In lower places then, now straying high,
Moors formed from echoes when the night birds cry—
Past temples, all at once too far away.
I learned that I'd forgotten how to pray,
And all I knew at last was how to lie.
But all the creeping crumbled stars were blind,
Their progress smeared in circles smiling wide
Through stippled firmament and cracking blue—
And I left weeping, humbled, far behind,
No empty pen to show how I had tried,
Yet walking still, another hour, for you.