My skin is brown this summer but it would be white and smooth as a peeled mushroom if I lived in the forest.

I would sit on ancient steps and sing songs to the secret mother. My dress would be in tatters... I have worn it too long.

Is that a human figure I see appear for a moment among the trees?

Perhaps it is me. I have imagined myself there so strongly, hidden there, staring at the travellers who come here sometimes.