Must I ask permission for wandering afar?
Away in to the mountains where there is only green.
To lie upon a small blanket, like the child who sees
but understands not what lies before me.
The branches hold me down; the moss makes me slip.
I see a bear observe me while I disappear into the mists.
Mists made of fine fabric, created to make me blind,
to cover my sinful nakedness.
To lose my way at every turn and find myself again by your side.
I scream every time I see you. Is there no end to this pain?
You taught me to shoot, hunt and build a fire,
but never of what came through the mist of puberty holding out its hand.
You never said, you never warmed, about man.