A weightless flower full of liquid venom.
A cloud of petals made of fluid silk.
She dances on the edge of throe and bellum
Surrounded with leas and starry milk.
Her fragile leaves are to dispell in ages.
Her pale and glowing streaks in snow-white steam
Are keeping seeds desirably contagious
Conguring you to pray for growing dim.
This wild poppy is a child of freedom
The windswept stem renounces belief
And still it unifies such warring riddles
As life and death and youth and senile grief.
So staring at her fated early wilting
And holding areola high above
She's laughting at the world without guilting
Being beaten while blossoming in love.