Arctic journey

Fog only makes this emptiness vaster.
What I see is the window, my own face,
cold that congeals my eyes is what I see.
I remember believing, when I was a child,
the world ended at Hammerfest,
the earth came to an abyss
and there was just fog beyond;
that's what I believed.
I've come north because something
in me was finished, I'm dead weary,
compass gone, its needle constantly
wandered, it's been lost in the snow.
          If only I could hear a ship's horn hooting
          in the fog out there, I'd find my way.

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