Howling At The North Pole

I am howling.
All night.
Beyond the figures,
whose colours mingle with the dark.
Beyond the routinely round,
serenly shining, Moon.

I am howling.
At the North Pole.
Where I sit on my mound,
Which is but majestically white.
Where the starry snow flakes,
glide their way through the velvety sky.

I am howling.
But alone.
No one ever sits here with me.
No one I have, to celebrate,
my howling record with.
No one I have,
to put a warm hand around me,
and guard me against the chill.

And, I donot wish to share my mound.
For they would throw me off it, If I do.
I donot wish to share my records.
For they would get the green serpents, If I do.
I donot wish the warmth,
I donot wish to be indebted forever.

I am howling,
and I am happy.
Even if, they care but to stay away,
I am happy, at least they care.


I am cherishing.
This pleasure of calm.
As I blow my lungs with the air,
and howl away this long night.

A king without subjects I am,
Upon my throne.

At the Wide White North Pole.
Stale and Hopeless.