Stood in the middle of the road,
Quills pointed in defence mode,
He was going to write a novel,
With my blood
And his hundred quills.
The twilight twisted slowly into night,
And I stepped back
Out of respect
For he looked like a native American chief
With his white and black spears
Ready for battle.
He dared me to cross his path,
But I stepped back
Afeared of being in a victim of his wrath.
He seemed to get the point,
An then with a chief like grace
He bid me a cold adieu,
Which the rustling leaves of the shrub
Translated for me.