Master, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and are convinced that you are the Holy One of God.
The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.