The Woman In White Said – 4. About Valiant Knight

it’s just a drop of snail,

like the ligament

squirms the salty river

after the dashed lines,

like dangling dawn,

tettered dew comes

it’s just snail-drivel,

like a colorless torch

is the mucous membrane aflame

the babbling tear-bonfire

cracks like a splinter

crying burns,

the burning snail is sobbing.

Snail-slug, snail-slug come out of your home!

Your house is on fire!

(i’ve no more tears left, it’s gone)

loudly taps the snail,

like a dry bread

tearless firegirl, bare

humidity evaporates, the frost disappears

it’s a burning hot desert-winter

it’s enameled by a snail-shell case

inside it awaits her the night

a library-long space

she starts it, nibbles on it,

one leaf after another,

but the paper doesn’t lessen

in a book-air steps the snail,

book-stacks on the snail’s windpipe

(my book never lessens inside here)

claps the slug,

like a dry palm

she just turns the page, folds it,

it’s a sluggish book-moorland

the tile-shell cracks –

she’s not done yet

You’ll get milk and honey,

you will have plenty!

sometimes she peeks outside,

waves with it’s half eye,

the eye rocks on the thin stem

and if she sees a shadow,

a sword or a knight,

she retract herself inside her,

she shakily slides into the shell-house

alone, alone inside

for what, she doesn’t know,

for whom, she doesn’t say,

alone, alone she waits

If you don’t come out, you’ll be sorry!

You I will not marry!

why, what a clever twist!

something is glinting outside…

a curious snail-horn looks out:

is it just another bearded malice?

the short-sighted stem blinks,

the snail-castle welters and flickers,

the horizon trembles and throbs

and that awkward chandelier-movement

doesn’t scare her away yet,

fear and the snail-turn is slow,

she doesn’t smell military technology

she dares to stick her head outside halfway

she stares with big eyes, scans the scene:

is he going to trick her as well? will he trap her?

cut her horns? shrivel the snail?

will he grab her with a pitchfork? grind her with his sod-teeth?

but she can’t even finish her thoughts,

when she’s seized by the collar

she’s dragged by her scruffy stem

out to the big, feared, real light

the poor one was used to

the neon tube, spiral staircase, library-steam,

she was used to locking her door

now she’s been caught,

piched up, taken home

she is still living inside

the Valiant Knight’s cozy heart,

at the bend of his dreams and soul,

in a wimpy snail-bliss

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