By a bitter birch's bountiful bloom
My child whistled madness at winter's howl.
The young feline jumped from Satan's harsh womb.
No more knowledge, all he could do was growl.

I prayed mother was home, and father too.
They should not see a waste of their sweet fruit.
With this in mind, in tears, my sword I drew.
If I only had an arrow to shoot.

For I am the greek and she the leopard.
She goes for the ****, a heart's dark Shepherd