Monday, January 23, 2012

Ermines die for them

I surrounded myself
With combs I never use
I count their teeth
Naming each one of them
After kings without name
Without beard and without golden crown
But I know of their cloaks

A drip of blood on snow
Melts with the Spring
Floats with a current
And trickles into soil
To satisfy underground lakes
Appeasing my thirst
While I count teeth

Completely out-of-vogue
Ermines die for them