She speaks to thee in words, Not of spoken type, She talks to thee in poetry, Then you come to dance with me, A blend of vexations mischief mixed, The black heart is being fixed,
Slow puncture so deflated, Very slowly trickles out, The blood runs warm, Although her heart is cold, Sour blood dissolved through water's edge,
In a dizziness of fashion, Her life is full with passion rich, Magic from two crazy pens, When you and she will meet again, To write of nature, love and pain! By ladylivvi1