The Runner

I run, I run,
Out amongst the ripening corn,
The oat-fields green,
Amongst the barren wastes unsown, untilled.

I run, I run, pursued
By a moment’s understanding of a moment,
Hunted by the bloodhounds of the night,
Followed by the pathway of the moon.

I run into the half-night,
Run on to where the moon is lost
In still darkness of trees
By sunstormed lovers in the silent air.

I run into the night, Cleaving to each moonlit patch of ground,
Slow to leave and loath to leave
The earth to darkness.

I seek to leave a thought
In the blackness of each shadow that I cross,
At each corner of the path
Let leap the thought, to leave me…
It returns, returns, returns,
Bringing hatred and madness
To the peace of the night.

I see darting squirrel, suddenly,
And flinging wildly a jagged stone,
Kill him, crush him underfoot
And break his bones and stain his death
Upon the earth… And the darkening redness
In the moonlight comforts me.

The steady feet of insane thoughts pursue.
I run, run on through vapours of the night,
Run down the rocky path, and at the last,
Leap… Falling into soft sea sands,
Returning to the bosom of the mystery.

Tilo Ulbricht

1946-47

Graphic: Clifford Harper