The truth of flowers
Spring has been woeful
Its legend has confused
The flowers. They are adept
At seizing the truth. Then summer,
Blood-river, bathing you in its
Arms. Capped with dead angels
And cracked crockery
Alms were given to those
Remembering the dead:
Dead souls ante portas.
I have gathered the pages
Leftovers from the banquet of evenings
Draw them into fiery ovens.
Loaves of bread
Or damascened leaves transparent
In the translucent hands.
Your soul appeared as a question
Then in the shape of a blessing
Riving the eye of a beast.
Your soul was lamentation, and later
The soft breeze of the waves.
Your soul was held captive
By kings and their slaves.
Beaten and hated, your soul went away,
Though lambs graze in its regions
Their gullets filled
With your substance. Fields lost
And forsaken where great roads, we,
Could have joined pathways at angles.