Echo responds trapped in the limits of the words
Narcissus sacrifices flippantly. He discounts this
recall of his locution, not hearing a tight voice
ripple and tremble, tremble all timid, full of
taint, speak through his big mullock.
“Noise in rotting bush: ‘tis someone giggling
close. Who are you?”
“Will you shun me?”
“You shun me!”
“Come hither,” he commands, and she, a petit
infant, bolts in joyful spirits.
“Me,” she says, giggling a pliant craft.
“Desist! I would rather depart this life
than abduct you!”
“Never!” he cries.
“Ever,” Echo pleas, recognizing that Fate will
devise a glacial, fanatic tale to suit. A tacit artist
can sift a basic alibi of a stiff fact.