Towards the eave, the scattered brushed, The lark-brown bedroom, the swirl of these trotters,The desperate garden merges with, Merges down with the forgotten.Flowers fall, shadows meet, On a pulpit horizon, We want that blime on our skin,The rest of the scent we think we've gotten, As if we possess, that we won't rise,To a master's height, the words of love, When the tattoo is gone, the skin that starts his chase,When grievers sing, and cry foul, Flowers fall, shadows meet, On a pulpit horizon,We want that blime on our skin, The rest of the scent we think we've gotten,Save only the lion's tail, The pain of injury, not what we thought,The lion saved from gutted claws, Is not what we've forgotten.Towards that wall, the scattered brush, Lark-brown, forgotten,Swirl of eyes, swirl of trust, The spring garden that we trotted,Flowers fall, shadows meet, On a pulpit horizon, We want that blime to rest on our skin,The rest of the scent we think we've gotten.*