In here the fields are lush and warmed,
The dew is soft, the light is gold,
In here, within this head of mine:
This wasted, wicked, murderous head.
I’m free to wander where I like,
To trace my family heritage,
Parade around the castle walls,
To fly: if egrets take my thoughts.
I’m cut adrift of time in here.
I sometimes think I hear the sea,
And other times the hooves and herds,
Then once a year I’m paid in blood.
The ones out there seem full of dread.
They seem so trapped, they’re better dead.