Within the mighty depths of hell
a hopeful strength emerged.

A chick is hatched, unprepared, gone.

But soon this demon died and fell
for Death fulfilled an urge.

Dust from dried-up reservoirs swamp
the morning. Sweat sticks to thin clothes.

And from her ashes rose a scorn,
a surge of wrath, as they do tell.

Hats and fans wave in cadence on
the porch. Mosquitos and flies on
sunburnt skin are swat from existence.

Hearts were crossed, souls were torn;
flooded by a sea of her love.

An ashen cloud submerges the
forest. The withered, dew-frosted
blood-red leaves drift off, joining the
arrangement on the soil. Clear
water streams by to the high tide.


-
By Aleksander Mielnikow (Alek the Poet)