Waves have washed the blue from your eyes,
painting
your lips with a violet hue,
your raven hair, cool and finer
than even branched velvet, floats freely
as daisies and long purples bloom
beside the stream whom all shall come to mourn
like Adonis, gone in his prime,
struck the Syrian damsels in annual hum
of grief and undoing of young love.
No comments:
Post a Comment