The soup with jonquils that’s eaten at the fairies’
house, a dull little spoon gave me the recipe.

One evening it lured me under its raincoat. In the
dark, against its heart, a little light was living. A
weak little reddish flame, surrounded by a blue halo.

It’s her — I’ve understood it ever since — she’s who
hummed me the recipe.

Alas! My gasp was so strong that she died from it.