That forbidding sea crashed against
the flowers – their petals and stems into
tombs had fell. Bricks of old castles
marked their homes, each small libellum
of prayer their spring, their fragile arms.

In the books of woe sprouted
barren trees and a painting that
smiled at the fire. A raven
of oil stood motionless and cawed
the prints and peoples it had saw.

The conquerers did not weep at
loss, their arms shone in morning emboss.
They knew not the stories they owned,
their insipid fires so scorched the earth
that petals of flowers found themselves black, castleless.


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