A cabin on the seashore or even a
cave in a rocky mountainside could give me this
but my will,
All movements are one great standstill.
Such disquiet when I feel,
such discomfort when I think,
such futility when I desire.
A few vestiges of consciousness persist.
My feet stepped like theirs over the floorboards and the flagstones,
but my heart was far away,
even if it beat close by,
false master of an estranged and exiled body.