sexta-feira, 24 de março de 2017

Dead flowers, dead hearts

Seven pomegranate seeds
stroke the deal
so with us all deeds
would be a game - return and steal.

Then in this heart of stone
once you said you'd stay
a rose was born -
dry, but gorgeous all the same.

What was the hunger
that fed, made you queen?
Was it for the power
or the longing for things never green?


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