My Eye-balls Are Glass, My Limbs Marble,

There's A Black Rose Growing In Your Garden.

No One Knows, The Heart Of A Child, How It Grows Until It Is Too Late.

I Testify To Rainbow Feathers, To The Span Of Heaven And Walls Of Colour, The Colonnades Of Jasper.

I Had Drawn Away Into The Salt, Myself, A Shell Emptied Of Life.

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.