The glowing tip of my cancer stick is the only light I see
As the wind blows low, on the whitest snow, there is only it and me
I stand alone, a frozen gnome, wondering what will I be
And the crushing blow, too hard to know, is I cannot be free
From the chains of steel, and the burning wheel, constructed long ago
When the world was young, and its mother tongue, spoke only where to go
So the wind whirls round, without a sound, tossing me to and fro
And I can’t escape, without my rolling papes, for then I just might know
Andrew Moss
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/green-hills-no-more/
