For your amber hair
Which lays in clotting mud
A rose with a single thorn
That survived the shears
To be eaten by a worm
A scuttling thing
Man's eventual doom
A plague
It kissed you once before
And you were born
And the sky wept for you
Suicidal muse
Who fought and cheated and stole
Who left tears in her wake
Who had no other name
In the ground we found you
In the ground we left you
Covered in salt
Under a stone house.
Empty and cold. Alone.
Sweet apple brandy on our lips
In the early hours of the morning of Norsday, the second of September, Youree was eaten by a grue.
