Oh I, the wetly weak claw,
led by his strong, warm paw,
walking the forbidden path
through high, uncut summer-grass ...-
while hunters in nose-dive,
membranes, servants to their flight,
were buzzing all around our heads,
black parasol, balance and shades.

Those little bells on my fool's cap
all witness to my sad defect,
crowning my pale seriousness
in most ridiculous distress.

The smile on his weather-tanned face,
his white teeth somewhat out of place ... -
the gentle roughness of his hands,
dark soil staining his fingernails.

Ushered into the forest's hold,
I'm folding up my parasol,
heralding fears of deprivation,
in answer to my hesitation
he's parting the branches as we move,
I dare a smile in shy excuse.
Oh, does he know the ghosts I drag,
the dreadful ending I expect?
The boyish hand of this olden maid
hints secrets, guarded by her face.

Does your world know my shadow's near,
the loop of time I always fear?
The fact that I carelessly stepped
into my very own, dark trap?
You stride, I'm glancing at your belt ... -
should I miss any of the things I never felt?

The shaking hand of this olden maid
instead waters the flowers
on her ancient grave.

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