From in the safe of where I peer,
Prowling and finding nothing near,
But a winter day on the land,
And how strange if turned to sand?
In a box of rocks shaped like blocks,
The eldritch sky calls out a fox,
Wishing to be a wolf-like soul,
But panting from an airy hole.
May I risk with this sympathy,
Racing my heart to Mercury,
For if I was to warm the fox,
Would the fox accept the small box?
Down the lake, her soul could awake,
Sidling from snowy intake,
Lacking no necessary air,
But killed by her when showing care.
The morning when shade was winter,
I'm dead, and her heart I enter,
For she can discover what's care,
Beneath sacrifice of made air.
The night when shade was snow, I show,
As disturbing as an arrow,
Making my presence known to her,
I receive her cry of murder.
Her cry is as shy as the sky,
And she could be telling a lie,
But I learn to pat the sad fox,
Living in the warmth of my box.
