Her head is glass, her life is paper
Her fate is the poetry of an occluded mirror
She walks the seven rounds of the fire
And garlands the mystery of the sire
The tears glitter with her hope in the unknown
To what reality her seeds have been sown?
Await that the innocence of eggs is always broken
whether eaten without guilt or hatchlings awoken
The night sky is quiet like the dreams of a child
The day has gone in the heart of a bride
Birds can nest in trees that are hollow
but can they sing when the season is fallow?
Will these be precious like the jewels worn?
A field may be fertile, but fortune is to the weather sworn
Her decorated hands will be washed tomorrow
with the knowledge of her joy or her sorrow
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