With lingering love she gazed at the
Colors of dusk.
It pleased her
To lose herself in the complex
Or in the cunous life to be found in was not the primal red but rather
That spun the fine thread of her destiny,
For the nicest distinctions and all
In waverings, ambiguities, delays.
Lacking the nerve to tread this
Labyrinth, she looked in on, whom without,
The shapes, the turbulence, the striving rout,(Like the other lady of the looking glass.)The gods that dwell too far away for
Abandoned her to the final tiger,
Fire.
