Deep and dark dirt,
worms of mother earth feed on
another young soul, soft,
smelling the lilacs.
They taste thy taste of love,
a fire now buried in sand, once
to light a thousand torches.
They taste thy taste of sorrow,
that vile bog of sadness that rips at
the curtains of sanity.
They taste thy taste of deceit,
of rotten completion in her roots,
a sour taste in the soil of Denmark
worms doth hastily spit out this flower.