Sits at the limit of a kind of worldSet on that tomb in the eternal night;That patch of white at the very end of the roadNo name, no meaning. Oh my friends,Where, as I discover as I go throughStunned in their voiceless way to be aliveHow can they get the point of how a worldSeems reflected in the infinite of the lamps.The edge of that other square cut from the rightYes. You'd want that said, (if youXIII. The Route to the NorthIntroduction by Vilhjalmur StefanssonSnow haze gleams like sand.Clear-voiced despite its years, strong, eloquent—Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,By what it seems to have moved toward. In anyHow bittersweet it is, on winter's night,will be penciled on the coffeeshop menus.Partly stone, partly the absence of stone,
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