Oh, to be cradled by the heights; swaddled by dusk, and the nearness of the moon— not now, but soon. The stars to sing a lullaby, the stream to spin a tale of music that fills the space between the silence and the violent beauty of emptiness. Dinner from a tin can, in the company of slugs, and the lonely outline of a shepherd's hut— not now, but once. Oh, to lay my head down on a pillow of grass; to wake with the morning and wipe dew from my eyes. Oh, to lay my head down.