Through my slumber, the shadows are racing
And churning apart each burgeoning dream,
But one was hurt by the huntsman´s chasing,
And yelling, it howls out its life.
Then the leadnote shrieking and the octave huming,
Into the ear – cells and fluff it keens,
Through nerve ends and joints it cuts like a knife
Spirals down into the brain, then upwards shrills.
I wake with a start, my puls unsteady –
The huntsman´s race in my mind ´s eye yet;
I´m not a shade, I am not dead,
But I am its scream, and the scream´s not spent.
(Nachdichtung: Derek Donaldson)