May Poem

this is the ground where the seedlings lay.

here Cupid pisses on them and makes roses bloom
for the boys to carry to their girls.
the thorns are sharp, drawing blood from bare fingers
as the waters wash away the fragrant smell
from the garden.

there's a stretch of barren land
where two eyes ponder the happenings in the soil
in which these love-buds lay:
over the hills there is silence
as the bushes break the surface of the land.

this is all we can hope for
from a deadly arrow and a stream of earth-water.

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