Jagged, a victim of asinine actions
And acrid smoke, lilting by the dark drapes.
Or maybe it was you, with napalm poetry
Burning red, green, white; who knows?
Let's wail tonight. The picture, you, I -
The darkness of the eyes needs washing.
In yours, under mine, and the picture?
It is but sanguine, you say. My eyes hurt.
Let's sleep with each other tonight.
I, you, the picture - no, it must remain away
Fetid little thing, not apposite in our havens,
Of fragrances and musk, and entangled arms
And Alhaiya Bilaval
You are gone. Or is it I? Dark grey skies,
You cannot see the moon. It burns red.
I burn red.
You burn red.
The picture burns red.
Alas.
