As I hover in that dream-haze between sleep and reality
I imagine myself a dove that carries a bit of me away
And cloaked in sorrow's shroud. The Me that is You but glides to the crystal margin
There, beneath the muting cold you despair and offer your spoils
And I lay my gaze upon the daughter Earth
And push you down my fingers bleed the dirt
Whirlpools retrograde and banish skies
that weaken clouds that rain. Milk which quenches fire