To the east I see the pollen,
tossed about by the breeze.

To the west black ashes fall,
a suicide of countless flakes.

Then the people call at night,
who ripped the lace sky-veil?

If the stars catch wind of us,
the Earth will swallow itself.

Your Man walked on water,
like a child skipping stones.

Brazen bull pyres harden
ash hearts just to the left.

Fixed fireflies shine upon
grass gardens at my right.

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