If I am out of earshot, past what you mayhaps will call me,
between one sun and the next- arrives the Scorpio moon.
Morn finds you chasing a fairy, the last of my kind that will fall, free,
Scraping dead coals into ashes, looking for strains of my tune...
It isn't the season for dirges, the lilies aren't blooming quite right,
Did I lose all my reason to urges, was it a mistake to alight?