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A hyacinth gift from the afternoon...


Perhaps I am a changeling child
whose parents were long back beguiled
and being given something wild
could not contain nor know it.

And so they left me here or there
With dirty knees and feet so bare,
a nest of robins in my hair
but no one ere to hold me.

So up I grew and tried to pass,
I combed my locks, sat straight in mass;
a stranger in the looking glass,
my secret bound in lonely.

How long shall I pretend this role?
How does this mask extort its toll?
What chokes the zephyr of my soul?
I fear its final gasping.

One day I’ll go, I’m resolute.
I’ll weave myself an ivy suit
and toast you with a hyacinth flute
to sweeten how I leave you.

For in the woods my name is said
as family and I’ll be fed
then laid upon a mossy bed
where I can only dream you.

But in the black of Solstice eve
if my perfume you can perceive,
dare follow it, dare to believe
if you would have me steal you.

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