A ragged fox limps through the night.
Where is she? She who limps alike?
He can feel her, all her splendour and delight.
But can he risk it? A fruitless search may end his life,
It's his nose, his eyes, scraps of meat and bone and grit,
That ensure he'll see the morning light.
He leaves it behind, that vision will find its way back,
From it he takes what hope he can,
As fuel, for his left paw, then his right.