MY BONDS ARE cut, my debts are paid, my door has been opened, I go everywhere.
They crouch in their corner and weave their web of pale hours, they count their coins sitting in the dust and call me back.
But my sword is forged, my armour is put on, my horse is eager to run.
I shall win my kingdom.

MY WORLD, when I was a child, you were a little girl-neighbour, a loving timid stranger.
        Then you grew bold and talked to me across the fence, offering me toys and flowers and shells.
        Next you coaxed me away from my work, you tempted me into the land of the dusk or the weedy corner of some garden in mid-day loneliness.
        At length you told me stories about bygone times, with which the present ever longs to meet so as to be rescued from its prison in the moment.

THE LITTLE flower lies in the dust.
It sought the path of the butterfly.