Oh the misty way, begotten of stars,
Like some ephemeral silver, dancing.
The moon is hung somewhere obscure,
The peering stars are few between the clouds,
And the shadows lie still in deep ditches.
The air is so heavy that it's light,
Caught up in all this fuzzy floating,
Falls down to butterfly kisses on the ground,
It seems to hardly greet the grass.

I fright myself a metal man,
Clung down to bone and copper vessels,
Rust-bitten flowers mark the face,
Blooming to scattered scarlet petals,
Rose flesh beneath sits out of place,
For rust lies faintly though it settled,
With winter though it look so thick,
I shake off now the blooming metal.