The world was mine by birthpang of my dam. It spanned whole spang creation: mud for toad, timber for wolf, ravine for mountain ram, rash brook, brine pit, rain scour, snow crust, wind goad. And there I grew, I earth, I prince: huge time my cave. I leaped toward my rude years unbound. I roared by rock and moss, in dew and slime. And no mote strange in all this island ground. There came an alien with his book of names. He read me from its magic. Him I loved. Fetched wood, built fire for him, gleed at his games signal with force as clouds seen fixed that moved. This man loomed tall with words like faith, like doubt. His daughter steered my hand to spell them out. She taught me how to serve. Oh I throve thrall willingly, which was first mine only king. From lump, from thing, she anguished me, by small lisps of pity, to thoughtsome breath. To bring berries to madder her lip, I stormed the teeth of bramble. Rasped on thorns sprung from my own burr-person, to prove me blood-big underneath. Nothing natural I was, so subject grown. She tracked for me sun's travel, dawn to noon then down again. She showed me how black skies swoop up an embered dusk to kindle moon. Sore then I snatched one beam wild from her eyes, to keep me through my dark, to wane my night: me wretch, me witness how my world lacks light.