Tree of Words


6. My War Field

If ever a word was invented

for chaos and splendor,

that one bears the insignia

of your reddish name.

My war field,

in your lips

lie waves of autumn grass

set to fire

by the thunders of your heart.

And in your hips

chants the hoarse

and wild voice of the prairies,

roaming in the vastness of your birth.

And in your eyes,

my doom burns like a brand

cast in iron in my chest,

on my skin.


I want to journey across your winds,

spread in your breath

and consume you

until we fuse

in the shape of a storm.


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