Anger is described as a shrill fire that darkens cities and shrivels flowers. Its feverish tungsten rage can invisibly char the day like an acetylene torch. However, a hidden love note will not be destroyed by fire, and a woman's love persists beyond walls consumed by flames, conceiving of higher windows and a new sun. While anger leaves a scorched landscape, the human eyes still see miracles in nature that feet cannot quench.
Anger is described as a shrill fire that darkens cities and shrivels flowers. Its feverish tungsten rage can invisibly char the day like an acetylene torch. However, a hidden love note will not be destroyed by fire, and a woman's love persists beyond walls consumed by flames, conceiving of higher windows and a new sun. While anger leaves a scorched landscape, the human eyes still see miracles in nature that feet cannot quench.
Anger is described as a shrill fire that darkens cities and shrivels flowers. Its feverish tungsten rage can invisibly char the day like an acetylene torch. However, a hidden love note will not be destroyed by fire, and a woman's love persists beyond walls consumed by flames, conceiving of higher windows and a new sun. While anger leaves a scorched landscape, the human eyes still see miracles in nature that feet cannot quench.
Anger is described as a shrill fire that darkens cities and shrivels flowers. Its feverish tungsten rage can invisibly char the day like an acetylene torch. However, a hidden love note will not be destroyed by fire, and a woman's love persists beyond walls consumed by flames, conceiving of higher windows and a new sun. While anger leaves a scorched landscape, the human eyes still see miracles in nature that feet cannot quench.
In anger words of pure heart Like the steady throb of acytelene Charring the rind of day While seeds hardened in the fruit Your silence holds close to your mouth
The design of such shrill fire
Is invisibility at high noon Its tungsten fever shrivels Feasts of flowers, handribs of woods Darkening cities and curtains That panic through the tears of widows
But a lovenote folded somewhere
Will not crackle in the embrace of fire I think of you, how the loves of women Are specially persistent and Will not be satisfied with walls whelmed By fire, their pride habitually
Conceives higher windows brimming
With the stares of children, an earlier Sun, Fury like a blowtorch Left burning on a torn edge of pavement, Supposses the leanest landscape, like knuckles Drawing no such order as rain, Whereas our eyes still have those miracles, The weed, Whose lush silence our feet cannot quench.