Often she dreams of love and what's worse
she can't forget. There's this face, yet unfamiliar
ground and it's haunting her.
She's been told a lot. That she's beautiful, that
she'll change the ways of men. And now
there's no way around it but she will.
Oak and ash will not relent. On naked
earth a seed must grow. None of my words
can really match this spell.
Things are different here. What you see
is hardly what you get and what men call peace
is actually a slow delusion of the mind.
There's always teeth to mark the wound. Or
so I find. Sometimes it's easier not to hope,
let come whatever must.
What use is there in holding her. Either way
she'll be gone once morning calls, when everything
is wonder still.
Abonneren op:
Reacties posten (Atom)
Geen opmerkingen:
Een reactie posten