the hollow lightnis still on the fieldsnwhere the winter has warmednand the snows have drained wawaynand the hunter's crynis still on the airnas the bullet flies homenbut the heart that's pierced with itnstill is racingnstill is racing, alone.nnthe silver shoalsnof the light in the deepnbrush the glitterin skeinnwhere the great, dark body writhesnand the trembling jawnthe unfathoming soundsnof leviathan, boundnas his heart, though weakeningnstill is racingnstill is racing, alonennyou are racingnyou are racing,nalone.