In the spring, even the flowers lowered their gaze.
Men swore fealty to their sky-gods,
Sat round their tables, plotting with passion
How to win their Eternal names.
A brotherhood of barren beginners
Traveling an ancient, fecund land.
Sorcery was in the air so they set out swiftly,
Crushing hopes for a more
Charitable reconsideration.

The world began in flowers.

Pressing on, three saw the signs:
The flags waved silently;
The birds cried out without warning;
The sun held its own against the
Rising moon.

This would not be easy.

The flowers held my attention.
Around and around we went, village to village,
Following the magic;
We´d taken stock of the witches,
The air vibrated with evil charm.
We slaughtered them all.

At night, we ate our fill,
Speaking of justice and redemption.
I was young; only the scent of the flowers has stayed,
And the betrayal of our humanness
Which haunts me to this day
Lies locked and sealed in a small box
Beneath a heavy cross
Among a few pressed petals, limp, forgotten.


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