God is love and love is real, but the dead are dancing with the dead and through all that's charming disappears. All things lovely only hurt my head as I gather stones from fields like pearls of water on my fingers' ends and wrap them in boxes. Save from windows, from things that break, as the night-time shined like day it saw my sorry face. Hair a mess but it liked my best that way (besides how else could I confess? When I looked down like if to pray, well I was looking down her dress...) Good god, please! Catch for us the foxes in the vineyard - the little foxes.
Turn your ear, musician. To silence because they only come out when it's quiet, their tails brushing over your eyelids - wake up, sleeper, and rise from the dead! Or the fur that they shed will cover your bed in a delicate orange-ish cinnamon red. Ah, I don't need this! I hate my loves, I have my doubts. I don't need this.