XXII

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I filled an earthen flowerpot with the finest sand.
Then, the wilted rose bestowed too long ago,
I planted in the middle and, with a gentle stab
Of reminiscence, I showered it with an instant flow
Of tears. At the end of this rite, I dragged
My palms on its thorns and fed it with my blood.
“Grow, Grow in lust and dolor”, I whispered. Such a mad
And spirited blossom revived from the dry flesh! The core
Of my tremulous melancholia is now bright, not flat.

 

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