Spring

Apparently there is no death
And the poet says so in April

That brings on yearly spring
With sun on a burning neck.

This while you are lying poet
Concerned about red velvet.

It will be picked up by a bird.
You pat yourself on a beauty.

A beauty is apparent in April
And the bush is singing as if.

You are lying about a beauty.
It is death on a stinging neck.

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