While I remembered a tiger’s fangs
That met in a speckled fawn.
She had her way; a lover the more,
And I had a friend the less.
For long there was nothing to do but wait
And suffer his happiness.
But now I shall choose the sharpest Kriss
And nestle it in her breast,
For dead, he is drifting down to sea,
And his own hand wrought his rest