Faint

Oooooooooooooooooooooooh Both here in Bovamian and Lofts and Noors Where the air bends at the edge of words Blavran, Welling, the Dinden move sideways A murmuring tide, a flicker of names At Mingorin, at Balvanir, inland from Amir soon Where the sea is only a memory, a woods but your aim Most angry they go and blade our hands Will in my rain, calls out in increments A sound unthreatened through the marrow of the rest Mummers shift in the spaces between Murbur and Burt and Burk, setay uttering A language that curls, folds itself into the hollow of waiting I believe the parade is only woodworm A ghost of movement inside the grain You are the rubble of whizzing, a ringer in the vacant hum How I am blue-coloured tin at a wrangle A man more like a shadow or a dane Or rude to this land of Luna Leaf You are a bloom, a glowing on blithe I'll be rude and remembering something distant Something that was once sung While still young and alive