She stands at the bottom of the garden a smile of dainty goodness smudging her chin, and a bouquet of somethings cradled in her white arms and she's a statue There must be a still wind coming from the west well, I'd forgotten the sound of Voice until now, when dinner wafts me in simply ~ there's an external source across my senses; I only get so far before habit breaks the adventure and I know the shrillness of my bark arouses the deity from her somnulence I feel blessed, then put the silly escapade down to dreaming But although I get something for nothing, she, who stood laying clothes in parallel stacks Recounting songs from a larger world, to me perhaps only belongs there now