A rose on a grave, evening blooms and punishment, midnight in a country field. A ghastly smile beneath the Arctic sky on the oldest night, the moon-shone madness, fighting back like a tiger, the harsh thunder, sit in darkness.
Another morning near a golden temple, a pasture worthy of paradise, the cloyed lakeside transforms into a gulf of slimy whales and boats on a tarry, clotted syrup. A spicy orange shore of ice glazed in angelic spheres of dewy rain droplets, clouded leopards and burnt yellow eyes flickering, one against a million, unpitied, unreprieved, unrepentant, the urn draws the cold light and suffering of the severed flower.