A lit flame upon the stitched rag of shore,
Which pales upon the blossoms of a winter rose,
I think of a frail dream with Greek souls and song,
That slightly breathed through the muted shore.
When will it part? These cold rivers are of a marred red,
And will discard to the faintest breath to the death of the white carnations,
And ahead, a lilac field of cherry rivers that will awaken silent hymns,
That will part among a cold ocean cry.
Must this be a dream? These darkened rivers must be the death of blossoming boughs,
And I will never know upon the forgetful memory of rivers before,
When I count the droplets made from leaf through the autumn or through a gone winter,
Must it say that it had went through the dream and it would never be a reminder,
Must it be the stirring streams in the weary dead day, this wasteland should moan across the moor,
And I’ll see the moon above the drifting rivers in this desire of morning, yet again,
What must it be as a bygone flower that wailed to a drifty leaf in the dew
That would fall upon a blushed axletree, that fallen leaf?
Faint rivers brush across the cadence on a fresh bed of wraith flowers that dwell in the moorland,
And I’d pick one, and cut it from a shoot or bush with wavering tender tears to death,
A whitened blush or was it a darkened wick through the sea that bathes in the light?
I’d forget this memory dream, as it laid into the softened rills of a dark trodden day.
Tears of the dark winter sea coalesce into the faint breath within these alone dream-lit stars,
I will pass by the frail tree’s bones that struck the pale evening with red myrtle blemishes,
And it will be darkened by the sea, and it will be darkened by the song of the wilting shore.
Where was the death of the wasteland? It would be here, and it would cross parting rivers,
That dwell through starved winds of a past day—when it would remark beyond the deafening stirs
That do become into the rivers of red—just as these lone rivers never pass through, as the wraith sorrowful flowers that glimmered through the half moon,
Why must the mid-dream go and pass? It passes darkly beyond a dream; these rivers startle me,
And on the sorrowful surf, I ask again of this cold wick to brush the sense of fire
On the forgetful stream. Where must I go now? This lilac is temporal to the beating wind,
And this wasteland was brought into the juvescence that gleams on tears that trail upon the mid-dream.
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