A soft animal lies in the shadows
under the old trees
Resting, taking in what is.
Not attentive, not distracted.
Losing no sleep over trembling bows shielding plumed arrows,

But trusting

For she knows she will hear them.
The tunes of longing arrows,
vibrating through the wind
penetrating her bosom

But when and from what bow?
Which archer holds the quiver?
Oh sweetest song
Meanwhile the world goes on