Come, the scythes chatter
as they harvest gold,
and the late Fall light
shadows the Virgin
in the alcove.
For the world to be stricken
as the November landscape;
to give up its color
and stand naked,
unashamed.
They are dark,
these hallways
of humanity.
A voice asks:
What have we done to our children?
New legends,
like a red sunflower,
man-made,
come to fill our gardens,
our streets,
our doorways
with submission.
And all day, the young girls
smoking and talking,
laughing and smoking
as if smoking
could lessen
the weight of love.
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