A finger of wind
writes her name
In ashes from
dragonish burned coal.
No one could decipher
the ashen tongue
Or transparent snake
skins curled in dune grass.
Gold summer sun
enters
The oak through many
doors
Yet cannot touch her
at all
She who lies dreaming
Of cold water drawn
up
Gushing until her
pail can hold no more.
No more to enter her
house
Her house the sun enters
by day
And through lace curtains
Sometimes the
strawberry moon.
She lies in a dark deep
ravine
Day sunset and night.
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