as steel does lie at trodden boot
no sound there is the world is mute.
her silks do gather to her form
when all in past recedes forlorn.
her hair surrounds the forest floor
as mind implores whilst at the door.
a silver chalice starts its spill
three rivers rise and air does chill,
his pack of wolves draw ever nigh
as shackles close and nightfall dies.
the joy of language soon does change
when to herself he does estrange.
in flight no longer is a girl
a tool to use as she unfurls.
`t. imaan tretchicovmanicova
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