Behold the lady of the garden,
her white and downturned face a thousand years sacred.
Behold her dim entangled radiance,
the hood and the robe,
the blossoms at her feet.
her and not the hydras nearly slain.
I held them, here in my hands
and they died in my grasp.
Died as maws grew afresh from the ragged things,
gangrene and necrotic from birth.
Do not look upon them, those parasites of the flesh.
Instead see the lady,
who could not answer even would I ask.
Behold instead her ancient sanctity,
her adoration cold and silent.
I held them, and their venom was dear to me
Have you seen her, in the garden, upon the mountain, on the road to god knows what city?
Found is the soul and found is the shrine
Her beheld, lit in the evening