Bright Wanderer,

Your heart beats to the tune
of a strange, strange song.
The world thinks you a devil;
ugly child, belonging in the night.

Horned thing, who are you?

A wanderer, a hermit,
fearful and small.
A wonderful fool
who cries when they fall.

Take your stick.
Tie your shoe.
The path to the forest will never close.

The trees are alive
sticks become swords.
Grasp it firmly, dear, fool with horns.

For great evil awaits you,
terrible things lie ahead
and only you can defeat them
only you can extinguish it.

Bring company, child
and speak much
for when you are with friends,
words turn into rhymes.

Sing with them,
whoever they may be,
and when the sun falls,
may you lull the them to sleep

with your strange, strange song.