In the place of your kin I found you,
In the meadow left out to dry
Your porcelain face,
Glazed in white, glassy blood.
No carmine kiss had spoilt it
On the eve of its last breath,
But the flood, the flush
Of bluish-purple life-fluids
Decaying within your chest.

Hydrangeas will grow from the tears you wept,
And the crows will carry off the bones you left.
Is it best for your love to run out,
Rather than be caressed by death?