From fated gashes gurgle streams

From fated gashes gurgle streams.
Snatch carmine rags from the seams.
Where gold peaks, from proud hills.
Peppers life in dales, humming mills.

A son lies sans cap and open mouth.
Softly on grasses that creep from south.
Sleeps, stretched, under the blue sky,
pale in his green bed where rain drops fly.

Gladioli tickle his feet, he sleeps, smiles.
Like a stricken child without the guiles.
Cradle softly nature, for he is cold.
Ah! In life, was so warm and bold.

No earthly incense shall quiver the nare.
Nor mortal cares transgress his lair.
He sleeps in the sun, hand on his breast.
Calm! Red roses ooze from the side of his chest.