I'm being held by the one
shadow tormenting my soul
the curving neck of a swan
the slow turning of a birds head

So white its plumes and feathers
its breast like the moon in water
silent and tranquil it moves
on the river in the calm

I wander back on familiar roads
I sense the marks I left on the hills
I see the cuts and wounds of my deeds
they make me muse on life

Up the hill and the mountain
I look back, I look down
there flows the River of Death
and here the wind in my hair