​and when this shroud,

the skin we moult,


traversing eons, sipping kisses, lapping tongues,

mingled meadows of scarlet red,


the standard waves amidst,


the smoke, the swollen pollen, detritus of ills-scarcely-forgotten,


to flutter on the ramparts,

aloft, again,


for the pot simmers,

and the light of hope glimmers.

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