All rise, behold the famous disappearing man [bad word] in crimson robes but leaves in yellow rags
Hear now his ancient call to union
And the [bad word] of the maiden and the stag

In the dark, in the dawn, with your wedding dress in tatters
You reveal the yearning desert in the country of your skin
How you ache for the fawn, and he says it doesn't matter
But it does and he's gone, and you know that he won't be back again

Long now he's borne his heavy armor resting
Only in his sorrows and his noble-nosed regrets
Some light, some momentary solace
And he'll ride off [bad word] and lawless as the moment that you met

So the [bad word] and goes, and there's no one there to nurture
But yourself and you know that you've nothing left to lose
Will you stand in the road waiting for another searcher
Will you weep soft and low in the voice that your mother used to use

Springtime the swain came green and hero like
friendly gypsy storm on tender lilies, hale and blaze
Late fall, the boatman rowed you grimly
Down a canyon dark and empty in a stale and dreary haze

At the end of the year when the cliffs rise up behind you
And the [bad word] in circles from the chasm to the core
And the [bad word] in tears 'cause the gardener did not find you
Will you bloom bright and fierce, will you know you don't need him anymore.