empty is a hollow word
that hits the stomachs pit
a fathom deep, no echo,
a void no thought can fill
to climb from it,
an act of stubborn will,
a fight, a war on loneliness,
a war on time
that moves without resolve
through every slow-stepped hour
and after this,
a blighted bud without a flower
the dark is full of shining stars
the moon will fade tomorrow
the morning sun is coming up
these things are sure as turning fate
but i can only sit and wait
the night will surely follow
the house is there but we are not
no fire burns within the grate
now the hour is growing late
home and my heart are hollow
no matter how the birds may sing
I sit here full of sorrow
Hollow
Above the frozen water meadow winter sunlight flashes
frail birches stand in line, a guard against the traffic,
their silvered arms outstretched above the dying rushes.
Icy wind blows bitter from the east, fills my eyes with tears.
The trees, in faint whisper, sighing, leaning,
speak of vanished woodlands they will never know
Far away, in the West, two hundred miles and more,
a brook bubbles, dancing, sings in a hidden hollow.
Twisted oaks, clothed in moss and lichen, entwined with ivy,
born of wilful acorns, rooted in ancient rock, remain undaunted.
From dawn to dusk, the air is full of bird song until the owl hoots.
Peace surrounds, enfolds, and, with night, bewitches.
I stand on this path at the side of the road
gaze at the birch trees, the sunset spread behind them.
This place is so empty.
The Dreaming Path 