My fragrance burns the woeful flowers,
Or the shredded leaves so innocent and new;
I lived along the meadows and the heathens,
Evicted by their prowl and insidious behaviours.
I told you how highly probable the invasion was,
How very political men saw their seeds and inflated
Their hearts above the knowledge of the trees.
And good hunger seemed far off, like names of the
World that differed, accusingly,
The world held a soul of attributes that mastered
Their meanings, fully swollen with words.
My jumping was scented like the rose,
Waiting for joyous sentences to burgeon and blow,
Piercing the very heart with zest.
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