My darling, I'm waiting for you.
How long is a day in the dark?
Or a week?
The fire is gone now
and I'm horribly cold.
I really ought to drag myself outside,
but then there'd be the sun.
I'm afraid I waste the light
on the paintings and on writing thses words.

We die.
We die rich with lovers and tribes,
tastes we have swallowed,
bodys we have entered...
and swum up like rivers.
Fears we've hidden in,
like this wreched cave.
I want all this marked on my body.
We are the real countries.
Not the boundaries drawn on maps,
the names of powerful men.

I know you'll come and carry me out into the palace of winds.
That's all I've wanted,
to walk in such a place with you,with friends.
an earth without maps.
The lamp's gone out,and I'm writing...
in the darkness.