Neither Wood nor Lyre

A bold-blue reflection
when the face turns

white is a sign
of suffering.

In another country
rain beats down

on poplar trees
bleeding purple;

my weary eyes
explain the sallow

skin of fading light.

All morning, sun
a crimson flower

cries blood into
a million hungry

iris; obliterates
the violet canopy-

neither wood
nor lyre will revive

the tattered dying.

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