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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