Lost in the silent groves of his beard br we pray to the god of this forest: br how is it fair that we wander alone br our sleeves tucked into this cold? br So far we've come, stones and bread-crumbs br look alike. The path behind br fills up with stinging nettles; our voices br grow cracked with crying. If a witch br should find us now, we know br our flesh and bones would go br for bread in her ovens. br br Only tell us what fault was ours br that god should have made us children br to wander in the beard of his displeasure.