Whose woods these are I cannot say,
Their laughter rings from far away...
A whisper in the breeze, a dance of golden light,
Informed me that the season past...
In the quiet of winter's end,
Where frost once claimed its reign...
tail bent and buckled
body painted with tyre marks...
Barefoot in nature
I release all my tension...
Same moon, I
will not witness the bloodshed...
The merriment of summer has at last
Bequeathed its final spell upon my eyes...
How green the shoots that all conspire
To bring the winter down...
When you walk at night,
Right by the street light...
Street lamps burn the night away as moths fly...
The wistful air in dance and play, trailing...
The flame springs to
burn my hand. Blood drips drop...
Wherever the moonlight touches
A meadow or oft tread dale...