From trumpet calls, To flaming walls, There are eyes upon debris Of a scattered woman. Her face empties my form, Her eyes empty my mind, Her love buries me behind, Lets me fall from the wind To see what I should have been. The meager man, with nothing to hand Of to the messenger, in tow. His hand, covered with the strands Of a thousand weddings with so many more bits Of lace, to wrap the bride's own face. Let love annoy the next man Who cannot stand To see where blood flows and flowers grow Upon fields made of her breast, Grown by her milk, Loved by her silk, To be ended by a thorn Buried deep in the Earth's flesh.