My dear, you love to have your secrets told.
You would not evade me for that reason
Lest something in the telling tears at veins.
My song, delving through the devil’s mind,
Brings alive a tepid vat of leeches
Who survive on the blood of their siblings.
Shall I raise them higher, from grotesque forms
To trees that have learned to bend with seasons,
Or mobs cheering for conflicts that are also hells?
Is it so opposite, from a newborn
Who fails to breathe and dies without a name,
To cross the Rubicon leading battalions?
The destruction of memory is crime.
All are victims of ancient infamies,
But more a theft than the Temple of Artemis
Shall come when you disappear at my death.
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