Are you the hunter or are you the prey,
black and white dreaming come unfold my way…
It’s an old smoke rising from the hands of the one,
a pipe where she lights intentions of all kinds –
the lady in the air is pouring down a mirror in the fall,
you look deep and do seek your soul,
her hand is letting ash and the steps turn out small
and in the convent she mumbles to the pastor to confess,
to close all the eyes she follows from the past
and the hunter leans to catch the game,
and hang that catcher on the wall –
the days are short and the night shall fall…