On the roof a senseless child. Growing long
its neck goes off to drink
from a faraway pond.

On the forest road from time to time the harpy calls, hypnotic.

Walking on the cloudpath around midnight,
a skeleton salesman hawking:
Curd, fresh curd . . . I think

The senseless child on the roof,
with its rockhard thirst, I keep it company,
I bring my mouth to the pond and drink -
not water but blood - I drink . . .