There was no one
Only the sound of my footsteps
Or perhaps the sound of my breath
Disturbing some wandering brief
A tone wedged in whispering grief.

There was no one, only a shadow
Walking on the incumbent street
Memories of pathways gone astray
With hands held in an evening greet.

Perhaps only in footsteps of the lost
There is a dance of the whirling trot
Murmurs of north in dirges of strain
Hungers of the earth in cities of plain.