My Dying Bride

Turn Loose the Swans
                                  (10.06)

  So little  of what  we observe,  is the  girl herself.  Elaborate, scented
coiffers. Adieu d"amour. Vast is the  heirs ballroom. Let the rich give  you
presents. Heaven pours from her throat, as she sings and as she dances.  The
fumes of rich swine, honeyglazed and dripping, playing in the air. My  mouth
eager and  wishing. But  I return  to this  nightingale. Her  hair all fiery
red. Deep  it is  and wild.  My weakness  will be  fed. Boys  whipped on the
alter of Diana, sometimes until  they died. The cunning, wily  merchant, and
his four crippled horses. Tales  told in warlike manner. The  storyteller by
the fire. While musing deeply on this sight, the songster stirred my desire.
You are sweet and fine to listen to. Long tresses about your neck. Yet  much
is false. This mighty evening, I"ve seen no face. Turn loose the swans  that
drew my poets craft. I"ll dwell  in desolate cities. You burned my  wings. I
leave this ode, splendid victorious  through the carnage. I wanted  to touch
them all. I wanted to touch them all.