There she runs,
Bamby of the woods of his heart,
frolicking about the low leaves
and high roots.

Look, she joys in the freedom
of the trees,
holding back the world
like some ancient harness
that binds the black god
to his stool.

There's her innocence,
leaping in the mist,
drinking of the ambience
of courtly bird songs.

He sees through the eyes
of a crouching beast:
He picks up her scent,
and his decorum is vanquished.

His love is like
a wolf on the prowl,
it lusts against his will,
and devours on its own instincts.

She moves like the wind,
he flies like her shadow.

She flitters like a butterfly,
He reads her like a moth:
Was there no beauty
the beast did not find?

He cannot resist the inevitable.