Glory

So old the tomb at which I kneel

A fortress for my soul.

My eyes they burn with wind damp rain.

Ripped and torn the nights grow old.

Now I hunger for the years 

When light slipped through my windowsill 

And the morning crept inside my room

Quite yellow from the slant of sun.

My youth, the tomb 

My eyes the tiger.

Light headed and light hearted 

I now toil with time

And I crouch kneeling

Spun gold riding high 

The wind rips through me.