This you must know:

The pretty girl
with the spring-wind hair,
who has carved hearts
on every single
sycamore tree,
is not in love with you,
is not even in love.
But she found this knife
which has a long,
wicked cutting edge.

You see how it is, boy?

And she must make her mark,
must dig into the sap,
the warm flesh of life,
to touch and cut and shape.

This you must know.