From the temple of the cedar trees,
Dryads sing and dryads dance,
And in a flutter of the butterfly wings, the mist is gone.

Through the shadows, an apparition is all that remains
It looks just like the Father,
after a prophet's trip to Medina.

I know overcorrection is an art conquered by
victims of defection,
the daughter writes songs with cigarette ashes too
And yet every once a full moon,
she seeks the appirition of the dying Nymphalidae
under which lies the four clover
of a rotten fate,
Every once a while, it's easier to sing songs to the dead.

- RS