Symptom

Wonder do they stride at all

who bore him over her

glistening ground

I wonder, do I sense the breath

of dragons, steering sound

I catch the gust with my hands

like an open bowl

and hope the beast never stills

the wailing of his mould

I wonder, does it pour me something opaque

in mirrormere and grace

this that has lasted for quite some time

will it last throughout all days

The sound turns undressed back to me

like beryls floating in a wide stream

I wonder is this the final chance

to fulfill the golden steem

The sound of finches

ledged to the skin

defy this pledged cry

never has it really leaned to me as

a burden or an obvious lie

I wonder if her silver horns

bestow poison into my chalice

for I feel the stains like I've been

touched, though wounded not from

foreign malice

Be with me and feel with me the

sketch of your enchanting sky

so I can hold you in my arms

tight until the day I die