It was long, the night last night
Blowing cold winds yet I quit not the fight
Feeble and fearful it was this body I’m encaged in
Whipped by hurricanes from within
In vain the ears awaited your call
Until on a cold bed this bag of bones began to fall
Now up I rise to a sombre morning
A shrunken rose in my hand, mourning
With a dull taste of copper in my mouth
Out loud your name I shout
In My Room/Office/Studio
"A writer and nothing else: a man alone in a room with the English language, trying to get human feelings right." - John K. Hutchen.
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