The glowing tip of my cancer stick is the only light I see <br />As the wind blows low, on the whitest snow, there is only it and me <br />I stand alone, a frozen gnome, wondering what will I be <br />And the crushing blow, too hard to know, is I cannot be free <br />From the chains of steel, and the burning wheel, constructed long ago <br />When the world was young, and its mother tongue, spoke only where to go <br />So the wind whirls round, without a sound, tossing me to and fro <br />And I can’t escape, without my rolling papes, for then I just might know<br /><br />Andrew Moss<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/green-hills-no-more/
