With no wind tearing through,
No air in the morning,
The hunting of the building's left to me.
To appear in the room,
To embody a spector,
To fulfil the pregnant former factory.
Flooded with fluorescent light
Drowning ventilation,
Offices, alone in night humming.
Dwelling on the past to bring the dead to life,
I walk slowly every night.
Through the empty rooms of the changing shape
Meeting the white stag to see beyond,
To the ancient pursuit, following a feeling,
To hear where you founded dead in the mud.