Meet me among the numbing fields
where the cream narcissus grow,

where my desparate human voice sings against the flow of the autumn winds.

Do you hear the pillars
of my empathy crumbling?

The wicked Imbolc has passed,
leaving me naked and wicked
in the light of longer days.

Yellow-trumpted blooms of each joss flower are caught swaying
to the emptying sounds of my apathy.

Where I have been patiently waiting for
The flowering blood of hyacinth.
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