body, my home My steed, my hound, what shall I do when you die? Where shall I sleep? How to gallop? How to hunt? without me Eager and swift mount, where can I go? When my body—my clever and obedient hound—is dead, how do I know whether the road ahead full of thorns is danger or treasure? Lying under the sky, with no roof, nor door, nor lookout window How will it feel? Unpredictable clouds, how should I hide? — May Swenson