My precious, my wounded deer,
Why wouldst thou tremble in fear?
Is’t not thy blade thou behold’st,
Against the grief of life thou uphold’st?

The solemn ghost of time it saith
To thy forworn eyes of a wraith.
Blooming violas underneath now tell a story
Of sleepless nights thou claim’st to be glory.

Is’t not the beauty that keepeth thee awake
Or the very reason that urgeth to forsake?
If ‘tis the erasure thy heart desireth
Why hesitate to quench thy breath?

No hunter pursueth thee through the night
No hound clencheth its rabid bite
Yet thou still crown’st the ache
As though the wounds were thine to make.

If rest be all thy soul craveth
Why still walk’st among the graves?
That dreamless sleep thou seek’st
Is’t truly rest or absence thou desirest?

‘Tis the first bite of the bitter tree
Not to ken but to deny the decree.
‘Tis the sole reason why thou art so eager
To shed the skin so worn and meager.

The edge that once did bestow thee thy birth
Will that loosen thy bond to earth?
If peace be upon thee to take or leave
Why must it be thyself, thou dost unweave?