The hollow light is still on the fields
where the winter has warmed
and the snows have drained away.
And the hunter's cry is still on the air
as the bullet flies home
and the heart that's pierced with it.
Still is racing.
Still is racing, all alone.

The silver shoals of the light in the deep
brush the glitterin skein
where the great, dark body writhes.
And the trembling jaw, the unfathoming sounds
of leviathan, bound,
as his heart, though weakening.
Still is racing
Still is racing, all alone.
All alone.

You are racing.
You are racing, alone.