She leaves every man, every night with the same piece of advice
on an undercurrent of desperation.
Don't feed bread to the swans, it won't be for their sake
that the gift passes from your outstretched hand to their innermost.
The way to the heart goes through the stomach.
She's the girl who only ever comes out at night, moving through the crowds of the otherwise slumbering city like a bird of prey, although if you get close enough to ask, she'll tell you she's in fact a queen of waterfowl.