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Someone is summering in the underworldwhere the fountains and forests are forever frozenand the mountains are empty. It's an unkind mercythat these things retain their form. Maybe it was oncebeautiful here before sorrow became a sin. But there isgoodness in fog, in forgetting the clothes we wore, the thingswe said, what we saw. Memory cleanses itself, casting outdevils and angels.I was born, and the foot of fate kicked me down the road.I remember the sheep and cows peering at me kindly