A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE KNOWN LANDS AS TOLD THROUGH ART

or

Reflections.

Vermilion

Swathed in newborn moss atop the rise

She humbly dreams of fluency en corps—

Too young to know on ingot crypts she lies;

Too young to feel the ache of perished lore.

Her mother's ribs protrude, foil parapets

Once near the heavens now are stiff, supine;

And baby thrives in her flesh-bassinet,

Nestled near her river-covered spine.

The mourning is below, beneath her time;

Secrets whispered upward do not soar.

But should Fair Mother's sleeping heart a-chime

We must blanket shut th'infectious roar—

Lands built on lifted clips of marble grate

Are too soon lost than let be sans abate.