Old Alpine Pang

Barely heard
A moan drifts up
From a lower world
The scent of wet ice
Either a cattle farm
Great mundane pleas
From moonlit vats of mud
Some stirring of the blood
Old alpine pang
Old alpine pang
Or a crevice wail
Broken leg song
Lichen undernail
A life of skin
A blue so dark
He will go blind
A moan drifts up
Bile on the breath of spring
A silent swiss funicular
On unlit rails
Passes through dense wood smoothly
Crosses the meadow and finds me
Through a gap between
The molding and the pane