The woods are such a darkened place
Corrupted by the world we live
A cold, undisrupted space
Used by the world as its sieve

I seek to please only the one
The one, the one, which pleases me
It is the dark of which I sung
Near stark ground and the cold tree

But the ground grows cold
And the bark has grown rough
My love has grown old
Yet I have not enough

The crossroads at which I have stood,
Harken first to the land I love
Then to another made from wood,
To be a statue or a dove

Freedom from man or freedom from me
So I choose to build what I cannot destroy
and break from the strains of society.
For I refuse to act as but a child’s toy

On the curb of eternity
Living only to be free
Trapped by the will and the seen
That which is not those but only me