I'm
sorry that I killed a
little flower. She
loved the sunrise and
the dreamy night, she
loved to nourish with
the dew of life, colorful
looks skyward
to turn, to
raise into heaven in
the summer wind her
discreet perfume, and
the moon to adore in
the twilight cusp, the
whole time believing
in humans. Old-children
are left standing amongst
wilted flowers with
a bullet to chat and
in orphaned evenings they
quietly hear hot
crosses starting to cry for
their many yearnings. By
the fields angels have gathered to
choose the day when
the lives of flowers on
crosses will break and
humans will deny. I'm
sorry that I killed a
blossoming poppy, when
death we brought into
this world the
poppy died too.
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