It’s summertime
And she’s out every night—
Out till who-knows-when;
She thinks she’s everybody’s friend.
With her bleach blond hair
And the tight clothes she wears,
Sun-tanned skin;

Stealthily untouched by light,
Its reigning beauty unknown to sight;
Time of glory for a star,
High as high and far as far.
Wanders hidden through its empire,
Felt by none but killed by fire.

From atop the hill, there can be heard,
A lonely bell’s lamented words.
From atop that hill, a breeze does sing—
Crooning softly, herald of spring.
On a brick-laid bridge, a figure stands.