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Cross.
Three tallilies dusted with gold that the wind
scatters in fright,
watered only when a dark sky showers them,
majestic and handsome like royal sceptres.
One is growing from my wound, and when daylight
catches it,
bloodied, it reaches upwards: this is the lily of fear.
Three tall lilies, three tall lilies on my grave with no
cross.
Three tall lilies dusted with gold that the wind
scatters in fright.
Another grows from my heart as it lies aching in the
earth
where the worms are eating it; the last is growing
from my mouth
On my grave set apart all three reach upwards
all alone, all alone, and, I believe, as damned as I
am.
Three tall lilies, three tall lilies on my grave with no
cross.>