A constant hammer on wood and a distant conversation.Two voices, two villages,Separated by a river that scornsThe silence and floats into my earThrough these razor winds.There are no moons. No remorse.Only imagination.No balconies to get drunk and high, ISit here in the coldWishing crows good morningAs they sigh.Time hangs on the edges of the mountain, white.Something tells me: this is where I will always return.