ISN’T IT DELIGHTFULLY DEEP? ❤
Dirty rain
Upon the feathers; it is April,
Among the years broken in winter
When it was not winter,
And we could not have been alone;
This is where we dream
And it is where we no longer relent
In sorrow and regret;
The teeming of ice chips
Beneath our feet—moved like blood,
We occlude the protest; Mother Nature’s hymn
Is the birdsong when silence descends…
(Escaped upon ancient ruins)
The blood at your feet,
There will be no hyacinths for us
Among the yellow-lit roads…
In abandoned cities,
Not first or last,
In figments of papaya seeds
In our hands as we pass
The undergrowth at morning.
By the Mighty Mumford 