Matt, The Thrasher, gave
Her iron-dusted petals.
Their molecules kissed.
This mountain is sick.
Bird, beware all ferritin
Of a high recluse.
The mosquito blood
Sang in the shining syringe
Brown sultry music.
Na cuisleanna ag
Iompar ualaigh dearg na marbh.
Fear bréige órga.
E s´illumina
Il spaventapasseri.
Sera dei morti…
Hear that colour song –
Crimson wine, dark blueberry;
Insects have no blood?
Ease out that rice-plant .
How badly she planted it !
Slowly it rises, green.
Blossoms´ferrous pain
I am a sour-sweet cherry!
Big world now bigger.
Little mountain-bird,
Coo not; woo not my iron
In its thick sick blood.