Short poem I wrote today amid my usual studies.
A warm rose fell into the cold lead tide;
argent feathers drank the wealth
of life in substance. Grace to her children.
Madly self-vulned under a red saber,
she mixes alchemically milk and gore,
and the sea calls, “Do not deny the bird her passion.”
To a mottled breast like autumn leaves small beaks
dart up forgiven. The mother gains an aureole.
Panteleimon sang pellucidly before his heartblood.