The clouds are ragged as his clothes,
fox-grey and bloody from new wounds.
The river is a vein that flows
towards his hermit heart, festooned
with briars, and with poison oak.
Five beaver pelts press on his spine;
the spirit of an arrow strokes
his beard; his sweat turns into brine.
He'll build a tiny pillar of stone
in his mind, and only speak to those
who speak to him, for when alone
the Lord keeps him wherever he goes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem