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Click hereFields of crimson red
billowing in the wind
stamens full of ripe saffron
fields of smiling crocuses
sepals petals inward grains
cast the present in a light
bathe the twain
closing the sky open the seas
was that ever said of the soul
Maybe it should,
and the crier cried His news
shall we leave it lie
the rains will wash it away
so much delible ink on paper