There Is A Sacred, Secret

It Is Unbearably Painful For The Soul To Love Silently.

Rising From The Past, My Shadow Is Running In Silence To Meet Me.

You Thought I Was That Type: That You Could Forget Me, And That I'd Plead And Weep And Throw Myself Under The Hooves Of A Bay Mare, Or That I'd Ask The Sorcerers For Some Magic Potion Made From Roots And Send You A Terrible Gift: My Precious Perfumed Handkerchief. Damn You! I Will Not Grant Your Cursed Soul Vicarious Tears Or A Single Glance. And I Swear To You By The Garden Of The Angels, I Swear By The Miracle-working Ikon, And By The Fire And Smoke Of Our Nights: I Will Never Come Back To You.

I Know Beginnings, I Know Endings Too, And Life-in-death, And Something Else I'd Rather Not Recall Just Now.

Hands, Matches, An Ashtray. A Ritual Beautiful And Bitter.