When foxes eat the last gold grape,
And the last white antelope is killed,
I shall stop fighting and escape
Into a little house I’ll build.

But first I’ll shrink to fairy size,
With a whisper no one understands.
Making blind moons of all of your eyes,
And muddy roads of all of your hands.

And you may grope for me in vain
In hollows under the mangrove root,
Or where, an apple-scented rain,
The silver wasp-nests hand like fruit.