There is death in rows
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
Plotted from above
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . .
And so on
And on.
Thrust into unready earth those wounded roots
Cannot make sullen soil their home
And so they seek up up up
Feasting on air
Garbed in desperate green
Casting scent as a signal to the winds
Until the wind takes them
The sterile sticks of blind beggars
Searching
In an empty room
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