black poetry

the air is like a butterfly
do you hear the rain?
so fallen
where shall i find you
she burst fierce wine
lady, your heart has turned to dust
the pale day drowses on the western steep
there is a country full of wine
sun stepped down from his golden throne
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
night was black and drear
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
and still they walked on
and so it goes