THE EXILE

Night's crippling frost
In the hollows at dawn
The wind blowing from
the depths of a void
Blowing from the
nethermost places of Earth
And on the third day
Near dusk . . . . .

Themselves were hated
Their ways were of sheep
And the stink of sheep
Hung everywhere about them

Being come at last
To the wilderness edge
Made nightfall there
The sheperds would go
The next day to
The sheltered fields
The sequestered folds
A more tolerant winter

Themselves were hated
Their ways were of sheep
And the stink of sheep
Hung everywhere about them

They had no knowledge of the world
Nor had they knowledge as yet of the angels