The moment has not yet come.
The age in which I must meet you
has not yet come.
In which woods are you stalking —
lonesome and wicked,
and I am waiting for you – wicked and lonesome and ridiculous.
I am knitting a shirt
from cobweb for you.
What could little Eliza know?
The stinging leaves of the nettles
are a caress,
since the outcome is so close.
The expectation
could be a gift,
but only when the end is pending.
It is a nightmare being a riddle in the primer,
not knowing
its own answer.
The answer is however plain for any child,
but you must read it from the top downwards:
who’s knitting
a shirt from cobweb,
and who speaks
the language of the flowers…
You, too, must be
a little mad?
And we shall only meet in front of the madhouse, yes?
I’ll know it’s you — gesticulating like a fool,
whispering lovingly
to the toad.
And all the ages will collapse,
when we come to know our names.
You will say, ‘Thumbelina,
the skies have summoned me!’
And I will say, ‘Hello!
I’m pleased to meet you. Maya.’
