But still he is running, running
Against the icy wind. He runs
From the house into the starry night.
He runs from the voices raised
In anger. He runs from the fight
That never seems to end. He runs
Through the woods that he knows
Like the palm of his hand, as sons
Know the hearts of their fathers.
He runs through the fields and meadows,
He runs to the dark and dreary waters,
He runs from those he must leave behind.
He runs and runs until he can run
No further, like a whirlwind
When its time has come.