More bitter than chilly death, we are,
sinner, come in.
Our hands, our lily sinuous hands
will, carefully folding,
be as bands, soft as silk ribbon.
Our azure veins
will wind a circuit under your skin
in little, innocent
rivers. It may hurt. Come in.
We are white weavers
who have everywhere laid thin lines.
Our hearts are snares.
Our fingers have made pretty nets,
sinner, come
although our risky spidered webs
may stifle you.
In the fine syllables of our lips
we spell your service,
for we have since the beginning,
long ago,
sought out many subtle inventions.
We know our ways,
sinner. We will amaze you. We
will take you in,
whispering, "O alas, alas."