The Nightwanderer Poem by John Bliven Morin
The Nightwanderer
Here,
like dim islands
scattered in a sea of fog,
the dark gray stones stand.
Silently I move among them;
They are cold, as cold as death.
Their touch chills my pale hand,
but I press on, for I must find -
and soon, ere night’s dark skies
before a hint of dawn have fled -
the stone of the time-worn words
that call me back before the morn;
My epitaph, for I am of the dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/13/2024 5:35:34 PM # 1.0.0.1119
