The rich and rosy field lays dead white at night, the golden clouds and pristine breeze, a cush-golden echo and bolt of bright white lightning cuts through the sky like a soundless, searing, knife.
She is a baleful bride clad in a golden cage with a golden window, an ornate and traditional Fresco on a holy wall of Saints, ugly blue bruises on her face and legs shattered and scraped, a speakless crime and fatal gold chains about the feet, her wings clipped, she cries for gold, gelid weather, and she cries for comfort to end the pain, a watchful winter soon, the snow crunching beneath her bloody and bare feet.
