Nonetheless he has made me decamp,
This fragile little glove
For too many greedy hands
With nails acute as falcon's claws
By me, a fatal witch? Helen of Troy?
Anne Boleyn? No, only me, just a goy..
Although he was not Pâris nor Henry.
As war's traitor, dismissed outlaw ..
My poor little big man !
----
Torn of all sins and of the sad glory
Of Kukuland's frogs who croak and cry.
Whistling whisper hawks under pink sparows ..
Nevertheless, the one that I love,
Below although above..
Not an eagle but a thin tit..
------
Fly with the hawks,
My butterfly,
My weather-cock.
Struggling with an unreachable sorrow,
But far from these endless raids
In my straight row, now,
Absolved by my peers..
I dance with wolves.
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