It is bitter and sweet, on winter nights,
To listen, by a fire that smokes and throbs
While distant memories take gentle flight
To the sound of chimes singing in the fog
Blessed bell of vigorous throat
Hale and alert, despite your great age
You humbly cry out in sanctified notes
Like an old soldier who camps in the sage
But my soul is cracked, and when she longs
To fill the cold night air with her songs
More often than not her voice is thin
Like the death rattle of a wounded man
Lying in blood, under a mound of dead
Who dies, without stirring, in a pang of dread.
See original here.