Weird, tiny knives of nerves and wits.
Upon my heart an Elf-king sits ...
A cruel, Lilliputian mite ...
And by my breath he flies a kite
Of hope in life or hope in death.
He tugs and scowls with all his might ...
The kite depends on my frail breath.
I watch the earthly colours bright,
Painted upon that fluttering kite.
.......