She cried: "Come back, my Son!
To your life-giving well of love." He walked
With quickening haste,
Towards the leafy gums with a voice in his ear:
"Come back, my Son!"

He pushed it aside to make way for the robin's twittering
As it feeds its children,
Leaves crackling underfoot like kindling in hell-flames,
Breeze through branches of orange and red, carrying a plea:
"Come back, my Son!"

It filtered through, but still he fought,
As rippling waters washed his heel.
A twig touched his hair, and he brushed it aside
Like the voice fading in his mind:
"Good Luck, my Son!"