There was chaos in my sleep,
in the blackness of my sleep
but they said I was not dreaming,
only sleeping,
only dying,
on and on the river flowed,
a raven flying by the shore.

The moon shine lit the water's face,
as often as he kissed the rocks
where for a time
my dreams lay dashed,
and swam with flotsam
from my cog.

Why am I here? I asked the bird,
that demon bird,
that corvine sprite,

He landed on a jutting rock
and in his priestly prayer

mocked my flesh,
that foul bird,
that craven beast!

I shuddered in the biting wind
and hoped against all hell to wake,
but then they laughed:
the whispering wind,
the kissing waves,
the steadfast rocks,
the raven black as night.

You do not dream, they said again.

I sang a hymn from childhood learned

in this uncouth, plutonian bay;

Our Father, and the Credo said,
and thrice Ave Maria cried,
but all the stars had gone away.

I cried, and in a blinding spell
I fled the very face of hell,
and when I asked for grace from heaven,

the clouds broke down and wept for me.

I looked for God, but only found myself.