I am under the stone.
Search for me in rivers,
in black dales where moss grows.
Search behind the corners
of crooked streams, grass-grown lanes,
in the earth at your feet.
Who am I that I should be minded?
I have done fine with my own strange paths,
and now I am under the stone,
cool against the earth,
in the shade where moss grows.
Foxes have homes, and I
have a stone to lay my head,
in the dark where moss grows.
Look for me in canyons and tree
roots, follow your nose, the fragrance
of lichen and rotting wood.
I have known my own roads, I have hid
myself, and thrown away my name.
I am under the stone with only
my own eyes for company, my own bones
pressing against my skin.
Search for me in the green bier.
Come alone.