History forgets violence, cold-
blooded, the extinguishment,
and if not, the raw,
steadied torture.

This tenderness
rose from a river of blood.
Flowers in the garden,
wafting for no particular reason,
except a calling for bees.

Beauty I pick up on,
beauty like a sunset in the field,
blooming poppies,
just another revolution,
a day on Earth.