The Word Landed With A Stony Thud

I Go Forth To Seek To Seek And Claim The Lovely Magic Garden Where Grasses Softly Sigh And Muses Speak.

I Am Not One Of Those Who Left The Land To The Mercy Of Its Enemies. Their Flattery Leaves Me Cold, My Songs Are Not For Them To Praise.

Sunset In The Ethereal Waves: I Cannot Tell If The Day Is Ending, Or The World, Or If The Secret Of Secrets Is Inside Me Again.

You Thought I Was That Type: That You Could Forget Me, And That I'd Plead And Weep And Throw Myself Under The Hooves Of A Bay Mare, Or That I'd Ask The Sorcerers For Some Magic Potion Made From Roots And Send You A Terrible Gift: My Precious Perfumed Handkerchief. Damn You! I Will Not Grant Your Cursed Soul Vicarious Tears Or A Single Glance. And I Swear To You By The Garden Of The Angels, I Swear By The Miracle-working Ikon, And By The Fire And Smoke Of Our Nights: I Will Never Come Back To You.

You Will Hear Thunder And Remember Me, And Think: She Wanted Storms. The Rim Of The Sky Will Be The Colour Of Hard Crimson, And Your Heart, As It Was Then, Will Be On Fire.