You know which I mean. Houses without doors stand on the hills. Some hills look on like icons. Newspapers will not report if a hill Has been burnt at the stake. Five, ten, a million madmen Throw themselves on the hill And ride on its back.
Every town has some hills, A few lakes too.
They will be stabbed, They say, hills will be born anew. Stony eyes rolling on the pavement. Houses void of windows Blood spun into solid plaits. Tugging at the dead woman's boat Time is marooned on the shore. And the madman fuming in her tangled hair.