A Blossoming Poppy
I'm sorry that I killed
a little flower.
She loved the sunrise
and the dreamy night,
she loved to nourish
with the dew of life,
colorful looks
skyward to turn,
to raise into heaven
in the summer wind
her discreet perfume,
and the moon to adore
in the twilight brink,
the whole time
believing in humans.
Old-children are left standing
amongst wilted flowers
with a bullet to chat
and in orphaned evenings
they quietly hear
hot crosses starting to cry
for their many yearnings.
By the fields angels have gathered
to choose the day
when the lives of flowers
on crosses will break
and humans will deny.
I'm sorry that I killed
a blossoming poppy,
when death we brought
into this world
the poppy died too.
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