Mountains surrounded my exile,
my steps the only sound a hundred miles ahead,
and no welcome but a multitude of ways.
Every corner in the uncut hills
scourged me to elect a destination,
but no winds nor north star
could guide me now, nor binnacle.
No bird flew above
the white-haired & blue-clad crags:
I searched every crossroad for a sign.
I had to make the runes.
I had to mark out the way.