Billie Holiday

I love you lady, singing velvet night sky, singing azure violet wounded woolen stitch. I love your lady quavering haunting cry, intoning shades of purple in fevered pitch. I love you lady, even trilling, scraping in torment, your voice straining oppressed about strange fruit. I love you lady dear star teaching your malcontent, piping broken lyrics, imparting pain so acute. I love you lady, you never knew a childhood, you never rendered a cyan song the same way. I love you lady, though you think my love no good, it is you with whom I walk in the rain, preternatural every day. Flame of Harlem, you gave so much to live. I listened, and I cried, always my cherished one, so tragic how young you died.