The rows of cells are unroofed, 
a flute for the wind's mouth, 
who comes with a breath of ice 
from the blue caves of the south. 

O dark and fierce day: 
the wind like an angry bee 
hunts for the black honey 
in the pits of the hollow sea. 

Waves of shadow wash 
the empty shell bone-bare, 
and like a bone it sings 
a bitter song of air. 

Who built and laboured here? 
The wind and the sea say 
-Their cold nest is broken 
and they are blown away- 

They did not breed nor love, 
each in his cell alone 
cried as the wind now cries 
through this flute of stone.