The red black dance of fire. Upon the wall
shadows and shapes. A small child's tooth-pierced cry.
Thunderstonefall outside. You know you'll die
quite soon, hunger, or beast horn, or a fall
of snow in which you lose the way and starve.
And practice death song as your mother taught.
You heard hers when a treetrunk fell and caught
her leg and hip.You watched a glacier carve
a mountain crumble. Biggest thing you saw
that died. You're nothing, but the eye that sees
the mouth that sings. So drink it to the lees
small time of life. And we have so much more
we sing your children. Small things, great sublime
Dear mother, sing beside me in my rhyme.