She takes a much desired vacation
and leaves the city slowly
walking to the center of the nation
and finally she submerges herself wholely
into a hole of ice in a deserted town
a priest with a gun sees her become lowly
and he shoots some sticks into a crown,
arrows bent into thorns, and then into gold.
He places it on her head so she won’t ever frown
she puts on her clothes, the ones with heaven’s mold
and eats his ginger root, to discard inflammation,
but the dust goes with the wind and finds her deepest fold.