You beckon me with a curl of your lips
the promise of irrevocable devotion
but golden arrows clash with lead
my love comes up unmatched
Little senile things
make your tongue slick with cruelty
a budded seed of sadism planted in
the missiles you struck us with
I had not wanted to love
but you looked so sweet with those
leaves piercing your skin-
how can you run with branches as limbs?
Oh Daphne, you lover of laurels
I do not want you
but this wound connects me to you
I crave your roots
When I come up to visit
the moon path leading me to your home
I shall twist your fruits round my neck
and follow you even in death
Éloa 
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