I watch the playing grace of moonlight,
|
She dances like a child.
|
Her veil is undone, I can see her face,
|
She is looking at me now.
|
|
But then, from my opera glass she disappears
|
And I have other places to go.
|
|
I go where the wild flowers grow
|
She hands me a piece of bread.
|
Her eyes are longing, her body trembling,
|
Floating on a stream.
|
And then, just like the wind, she whispers
|
“Farewell, my friend”
|
And I have other places to go.
|
|
The snow falls where I sing my songs
|
She opens herself to me.
|
Her breast infer, her lips are blue,
|
I can see she is very cold.
|
|
But standing at the lake, she sails her way back home
|
And I have other places to go.
|
|
A thousand books against the walls,
|
She asks me about my name.
|
My answer is quick as I drink my wine
|
And she kisses me on the cheek.
|
And then, like the rain running down her skin
|
I have other places to go.
|
|
-----------------
|
Wild Flowers
|
| The Bony King of Nowhere |
