Oh, I the wetly weak claw led by his strong warm paw walking the forbidden path through high uncut summer grass while hunters 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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