No flower, but thorny fires that prick the vision;
No grass, but clods as blank and gray as death;
Monster growths of blackly writhing smoke-spray,
Shedding sickly scents that cut the breath;

No bees, but humming whining unseen hornets;
No birds, but vast wing-beats that rock the air;
Thunders, as when chaos balked creation;
Silences, as pallid as despair.

Champagne
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