In a golden glade a woman foretold
To me a farrow tale where I grow old
And yellow like books a breath's brush away
From becoming a dust so fine and grey
That even the wind, with his silver hands,
Will not carry me out to sea from land
Lest I demand it with my empty throat.
Ha!  Laughed the lady, then she took her leave,
Violet light now falling from between trees
As I had nothing but my mind to cleave
And my skin to scratch free of biting fleas.
I left soon after, hearing her last words:
You are not alone, I collect all herds.