Mary Mary.
The mottled peebles awaits
the light of the morning.
Fabled tales regail,
undoing their promises.

Through the nest,
the ship has sailed,
strange lands appear.
The wash lances against
the plaid sky.

Strangely Sunday love
is begone.
Soft was its murmur.
I've been on the blossom so long
Take pity on my bearings.