Seraph

Seraph: So, accuse me of whatever you want! You said you wouldn't hurt me. You've got a lute in me... A chain that hangs meat, In shapeless iron. What should I do? You're dreaming of the water of your memories, And behold, thy face, which from me Thou hast wisely driven away indiscreet. Thou wilt no longer look into my soul. A deer's buck pricks his hand, Thou art a prisoner of wounds. A pilgrim walks by laughing, Where the hermit is happy Thou canst do no harm if thou wouldst hurt me, Knowing thee, it's a good thing I know what trees you can climb You're a good boy, you know

Mezei Karsa XII. H