median shuttle
I am a man of old,
but little renown.
My tread is heavy,
through lands of milk and honey,
what is mine,
who knows nothing
but gall?
The stench of the tannery
cannot be washed from my back.
This was all I knew,
until I beheld you,
retrieving water
from a well.
I hoped
to cast aside
my ignoble club,
leap into the depths
and rise anew
with a valiant blade
to serve you only.
But in your gaze —
serene, unbroken —
nothing can be seen
but honest intent;
and so I fear deceit:
dreadful bile
in place of sweet milk,
that in falling
into your depths,
my lungs
shall know air no more.
Even so,
I shall fall.
vocal prawn
tight walrus