Howl

But then I could run to the shore, weeping and weary and weak;

See the waves’ blue sheen and feel the breath of the breeze on my cheek:

Could wail with the wailing wind; strike sharply the hands in despair;

Could shriek with the shrieking blast, grow frenzied and tear the hair;

Could fight fierce fights with the foe or clutch at a human hand;

And weary could lie at length on the soft, sweet, saffron sand. . . .

I have neither a voice nor hands, nor any friend nor a foe;

I am I—just a Pulse of Pain—I am I, that is all I know.

Stained by dark magic…