---
Well
this is the dance of the turtle,
Well
this is the snail taking flight,
And
this is the heart on the petal
Burnt
bright,
Burnt
bright.
Here
lies the hidden moth,
With
wings afloat about his fey form,
Alas,
Trod
upon by rainment blue,
By
dance; by song,
By
eyes not meant to see:
Here
is his winged soul,
Seared
through and throughout
Deep
and without.
But
this is the heart,
This
is the echo grown faint,
And
this is the maiden grown old,
Forgotten;
never to return again.
And
this is the heart on the petal,
Burnt
bright,
Burnt
bright.
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