Tales from a frozen foreign land
of black horses flowing out to sea
told in a strangely twisting tongue
that chords can barely bend to chant
the rime and rhythm in the line.
How fools found gold in streams that curled
and mazed round roots by boggy banks
What are you? Why are you here?
His-story hisses out of flatulent balloons.
and fools all fall about the place
while others look round for helpful signs.
It wasn’t that they didn’t.
It might be that they’ll never.
It might be that it’s permanently strange.