Take me back to the pond of stagnant time,
back to the musky corners of the night,
back to the moon and its shimmering light,
back to the scourges of your grace sublime.

Back to the moment when the gap was bridged,
back when your silence consented my hand,
back when we laid on the ivory sand,
back when you pondered the depth of the ridge.

I did not know then (I could not have known),
your beacons were lit, the wind had not blown,
that Beauty had struck-- How dear the cost.

I look at myself, the scorched earth of Troy
And I cannot find a measure of joy
that once it was mine, and ever is lost.