Meet me among the numbing fields where the cream narcissus grow,
where my desparate/human voice sings against the flow of the autumn winds.
Do you hear the pillars of my empathy crumbling?
The wicked Imbolc has passed,
leaving me naked and wicked in the light of longer days.
yellow-trumpted blooms of each joss flower (are caught) sway(ing)
to the emptying sounds of my apathy.

Where I have been patiently waiting for

The flowering blood of hyancithus

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