History of Paper-Hearts

Have you seen, with no word, The immense, cold voids ,among the slender, patient buds, Received hollow seeds? Have you beheld the earth Lay the masks of dreams upon itself, And like a sullen cradle, Crush them within its embrace? Have you seen the old children, Pitching their tents upon the graves of young mothers, On that day when mist Wept upon the bloodied bridal bed of light, And thunder, ,In a gown of false sequins, Wed the sky? I returned to the my embryo, And my hands, clenched the throat of motion, Hardly tight— Hardly horrified. Will you ever know What day it is today? What hour, Or the count of endless kisses between two eyelids? Will time ever wend its way— That crimson fluid flow Coursing sluggishly through your drowsy veins? And my child, With hurried crimson lips, Sleeps, suckling the secret of existence, Hardly deep— Hardly silent. That day, In a dead-end alley, A closed window wept. A window whose claws, Gripped the erected iron bars, And was crying out: “The history of our paper-heart has been written in straw.”