Somebody painted a moon in the big, black sky.
A magical moon, as perfect as it could be.
Then, he took his thin, silver brush and his silver paint
And painted the ghost of a thin and silver tree.
Out of his mind came the forest. And I begin,
as there, to that silent forest, he drew me in.
Somebody left me, there in the big, dark woods
a hackling shape, a shadowy, sinewy line.
Then he took his wooden frame and his silver nail
and hung me there in a world that could never be mine.
Out of my mind came a longing, for scent and bite;
to run with the pack and escape from the painted night.