to the forge

in le of flowering nard.

ttle boy stares at ares.

taring hard.

in the shaken air

the moon moves her amrs,

and shows lubricious and pure,

s of in.

“moon, moon, moon, run!

if the gypsies come,

t

to make ;

“let me dance, my little one.

he gypsies come,

the anvil

ight.

“moon, moon, moon, run!

i can feel;