And he steals her body,
still warm and firm,
sweetened by the blood that flows
from her mouth to his.
And where she was slain,
a virgin bed of roses lay.
In the rolling grasslands,
the blades still blowing to and fro.
Cold, she is.
Cold, she is.

And to the thick-thorned cave
he drags her limp, cotton body,
caught in between the pearl-knit razors
that sink deep, sink skin.
And he paws at her flesh.
And he tears at her flesh.
And he looks up to the skies,
but there’s nothing there at all.
Damned, he is.
Damned, he is.

And “forgiveness,” he pleads
after he devours her soul and body.
And from a hole in the foliage roof
a light shines on his prize.
And his eyes turn red
and turn away dilated and empty,
vast and vengeful. Serenity.
Here, the gnarly trees mark her grave.
Named, she is.
Named, she is.

And his pleasure, there comes none
now that his guilt has made his tear
and seeps from his teeth
and sits in his stomach full.
And as the leaves fold and dry,
the currents move on lame.
As the sun beats her rot,
buds roll and flowers bloom high.
Bones, she is.
Bones, she is.

And the shepherd wipes the night
from his eyes, the morning from his lips.
And next to his lover of marriage,
tried and strayed, he finds a straw home.
And only the virgin pastures
harvest the words to say.
And beyond the mortality of embrace,
he tastes the breath of nature.
Sweet, it is.
Sweet, it is.