Many Shall Speak About Love


Seasons have been named on Fortunes Land,
Glass shells have dried upon the virginal sand
Like my eyes, the sky's cusp is no longer red
Nor are the mourners still mourning the dead.

Once the children ran free, once they were named
In patched illuminations of dull cotton, wool and silk
She says —‘but now musky rags clog the promenade
And I prey for you, still, behind fervent waves of purple milk'

Where pageants once roared passions and triumphs,
Rats gnaw the bubbles of moss frothing from concrete
And victory is hidden by women with an artists discreet,
Where only unforged kings fit the visions of a nymph.

Tears weave crowns, blurring the skin of each compass
Scarred in pavements, aging softly, halved at their own sight;
And young girls harden to the sorrow of men who overlast
On God's anvil, where there is only the blackness of light;

Seasons have been named on Fortune's Land,
Streams of heaven are no more than sand,
Glass is smashed upon the infant's hand,
The endless prophet of blood and gold, burying the dead.

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