In the place where they were to meet, under 
the mulberry. From these leaves is silk spun.
One tale from another and another. When Thisbe fled
from the lion, the lion took her scarf in his mouth
and the lamb’s blood from his muzzle did spoil it,
and thereupon Pyramus thought his beloved slain
and fell upon his sword, and she upon returning
threw her body over his sword that did protrude
from his heart and she died also. And the mulberries
turned from white to red. Today, the lion paces
the savanna. He has heard the tales about this one
and that one disappearing. Everything returns and dies,
returns and dies. Today the evening, then tomorrow.
The waterhole retreats and fills again. He remembers.
There are days and days when he does not eat.
There are days and days when he does not make a sound.
One word for myth, one word for truth.
One for silkworm, one for lion.