He has picked up his brush,
The man of night,
And has painted over
All blues with black,
Ignoring her below,
In the corner
Of the garden, wrapped in
Her wrinkled dress.
He paints a silver moon
With some stars around.
All poets give him an
A, while she dies.
how bittersweet. the description of the dying tulip is so very vivid and palpable. i can see it staged like a Japanese ikibana.
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