With that sure reckon of a horse
Returning to its stable, I
Am in your arms again, strong force
The fiery pit could not deny.
Where words have no place left to hide,
You offer much that's not been said
And I, a prisoner of pride,
Lie famished, begging more than bread.
And should we find a stone removed,
Would this replace mere words with flesh
That time itself shall not improve--
Wine lately vinted from a wish.
Should I give notice of my tongue
Inside the cave where gods are hung?