Flamenco
To Adam
Million petit poppyblossom-flames
Are dancing, swinging fluently
Their fireskirts are flitting softly in the wind
A pebble knocks in the wind's voice of guitar.
Heavy bell sounds.
The storm's obscure veil falls
Over the meadow writhing from rhytm.
Puts out their little, volatile fire
Cuts their grassleaf-delicate throat
With a steelcold lightning-knife
Million petit blooddrop-blossom
Fall softly on the ground
Their redwine tears
Roll in your glass.
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