He speaks to the sea
and to the sky
that heed him not
and he asks not why.
Of light the silver,
it holds him not
nor emerald telling
tongues of gold.
Of holding, the truth is
nothing holds.
He’s cold but he never
says he’s cold
He’s old but he never
says he’s old.
And youth is apparent
on his face,
a conjuror’s trick
or a wanderer’s grace
and the air of the world
still bears him away.

Will he return?
Oh, that he may,
and you’ll hear him again
what he did not say.