The old man, they say, has lost his mind.
But we do not lose what we give.
And it is cold where they wait to be known.
It is cold where they wait. It is cold in the ground.
And what is the mind, once it has flown?
You might ask the river. You might ask the snow.
You might, when it lights on the stone.
The old man, they say. And he laughs. And he loves them.
And we come and we go, we come and we go.