Sibyl, why have you stopped weaving

Your web?

I can do nothing to make you happy

Because you are not where you belong.

You are no snow queen.

The sun sets on you always too early,

And I can feel your unnatural slump.

In my dreams you web and burrow

Near warm trees and are fantastically hairy.

And when the crickets descend

You beam devilishly

And drum your freaky legs on both sides

Like the fingers of expectant hands.