Listen: the Pied Piper’s flute
is sounding over the hills; the last glow
of the sun is fading with it. Come, I’ll wrap
you in fleeces, in velvets, I’ll wrap
you in mink. Remember when you played the flute,
how proud you were, sitting in your black dress, in the glow
of stagelight. I can still see you glow.
You are fire, are the coals that wrap
round the dimmingly coruscant trunks, burning like the sound of the flute.
The flute sounds its last; the footlights glow and fade. That’s a wrap.