Watercolour trees in springtime
Lustrous, like puddles in the rain
We are not willing to do this again
The lambs shed their blood for us
Their bones will soon grace the table
These long days, move forward
They advance across pastures and grasslands
As we contemplate the emptiness, the distance

They call this discovery, they call this recovery
And I am the one the others look upon
Consuming me like overripe, pulpy fruit
I have flourished and then declined
But those who devour me do not seem to mind
Once refined, now decayed. They bite into me
My blood surges forth like an ocean.
I am still here. A monument to that red flood remains

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