Still waiting for a taste of something true In the maiden grass, chasing the fireflies, Thinking back on the last time you heard me Drink dew like a hungry ghost in the night. Oh, would that my shuttered words could grow wings And search this whole breadth of grudging country. Instead, struggling long for a jagged breath, My songs choke and fall, and drown in my chest. Iron ropes, my wrists and ankles now are Full of wire splinters. My throat is too thin To tell your worth aloud. But, could I view Your moonlit skin, it would scorch my soul to cinders.