Under whichever sky I lie,
Under wherever dirt I sleep,
I am forever marked
Not by the fangs of the wolf
But by the pain of the sheep.
From whosoever's arms I run,
I am forever haunted
Not by the call of ports missed
But by the words left on my tongue.
And on my weary way home,
I shall dream of those dogged days,
Yet I shall never feel the light
Warm as it was
When you last caressed my face.