| I may not look like you Or laugh like you either Your lips red as cherry wine Mine thin and pale, face ashen Your figure lithe swathed in fine linen Rags, mud-stiffened, shroud this sack of bones Sugared sweets, nights warm On your tongue and by your hearth Broken glass and sorrowed truth Rasp my skin; stone bridge my rooof Yet twice our glance did catch You trembled at my touch For in my eyes you found A soul to mirror your own. |
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| --Prune |
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| last updated.....25 January 2001 |
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