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Withered Camellia
He danced on Love’s fiery coals
their heat exciting his heart
as Lent lilies by Wind’s tune.
His quill mercilessly bled
lucid verse on his ardour;
and his violin’s serenades
infused night’s serene quiescence.
Ah, but this cruel absence
his sanity now pervades
and strips his heart to the core.
Yet he by Love’s promise led-
drawn into approaching monsoon-
yields and partakes of the hurt
as no memory recalls.
Head bowed, he’ll stand- in his hand,
a lonely withered camellia.