In the darkness there is running
In circles, in blackness, running.
Not the darkness of under ground
nor the black net of the Winter night,
But the chaos of some disorientation
That pushes down dark nails,
Dropping down the ceiling of night,
The razor wire that holds us in.

This is the darkness before dawn.
The solid blocks of old hours
Which move across and let us in.

A thin ray of shifting light.