To the voice that alarm my people,
No wonder she bled recalling it,
There is a lust more like an envy roaring for love,  
It is engendered by the echoes in the chamber of her chest.  
To the fires in the forest of memories,  
And the horrors of the forest  dancing and flirting with her soul,
High as the nerve without pulse or false,  drowning in the very soil
The soil so clean as the lines she drew