Have the girls stopped playing,
and tying flowers to their hair?
Have the trees stopped swaying,
and perfuming the summer air?

Has the magic in the sun,
died, and turned to bitter heat?
Has the fondness for your son,
died, and turned to high defeat?

Do your feel broken and alone,
drowning in a flood of your own tears?
Is there reason for you to groan,
now that you’ve been met with your worst fears?

Has the little boy he was,
broken down within your mind?
Is there no escaping that,
which your heart tries to confine;
All the hate that is misplaced,
against my body that is still chaste.

Is there no end to how you hate,
what you mind holds true,
and you conflate;
with loneliness, and sin?

Who is it that you fear?
The prince?
Who in all his gay splendour,
living large, living free,
knows not why you hate–
him.

Is it he who you fear,
or is it you?