Beyond my village is a wood where demons lie in wait.
None dare to tempt them with their blood, nor gamble with their fate.
Yet late one night I wake alone within the forest, deep;
unsure of how I left my home while still in bed, asleep.
My gown is torn where I had walked through brambles with bare feet.
In pain and sweat I had not balked at summer's nighttime heat.
I shake to think of what I've done; I'd meet my end for sure.
Yet when I turn as if to run I see that I've been lured.
Before me stands a satyr, tall, with pan flute in his hand.
He'd played a tune that, to me, called; I'd come at his command.
At first I fear to look upon the demon's monstrous face,
but then I see the spiraled horns are fastened on with lace.
Atop a mask that hides his eyes, entangled in his hair,
a crown of thorn and thistle lies; in power and despair.
I know him then, and fear no more. I take his hands in mine.
I'd met him in a dream before, and kissed his lips that time.