There will be time for me to tell you everything

We quail, not live.
We dance on rugs of fern
In rhythm of the certainly dead

Beware the tear of the lunatic and bridges with no fences
Victims and solitude of the prayer
Patting on the shoulder
And emptiness in which the counselors die

Beware
Do not be found again

We quail
In the meantime we do not live