I’ve tasted salvation at the edge of cliff faces,
At the feet of a corvid.
I’ve known Grace by her wingtips,
And light emerged not from her alone,
But sprouted from the soil, glimmered in the air.
At this place, I am no lord or king,
I’ve shed the embellished skin,
And find no gold beneath as I’d long expected;
Naught but scales and petals here.
I have hastily bloomed in a bed of gardens,
But will not wilt before her.