A white poppy in a bridle path
(Once I glimpsed death: she had
the face of a white poppy by the sea).
A red carnation withering
among the pages of a Quasimodo's book,
pages that flicks through the breeze:
red carnation that dream up my words.
A full moon and a wolf
Both drinking
fresh water in my hand.
The moon has your voice,
Helen, your voice.
The wolf mine.
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