Life, passion red, runs deep into the ground;
Seeps through the mud, the earth, the first midwife.
Yet though the shouts of man forever hound,
The glad place will be charged with restored strife.
The pulse and germ of every form that grows
Is beaten, meted, by what we call blood.
When hot, it flows like lava running slow,
And fires the soul and liberates the floods.
Frozen, acrimoniously solid,
Sometimes not even that, by chance or flirt,
It sits inert while furtive glances bid
The reader to look closer at the hurt,
Since we cannot slander too much our past.
It will feed. It will renew. It will pass.
