Out of the gutters running with tears,
Of the mother whose child’s blood
Clogs the storm drain, Grows —

A flower of carnage eating the iron.
It is a thing of beauty.
Red as a rose, but deadlier; reminiscent of Rouge —

Lascivious lips that create Lust.
Il es mort. C’est L’amour.
I was dead the moment I met you.

I present you with the thing of beauty.
A bouquet of flowers I pulled from the streets.
'I'll get the vase.'