O, you tug
at his wings,
tear them
away.
From his body:
gentle
child in yellow, see
him strange
as calligraphy, see
your naked
monarch twitch
with grief, black,
no, no
longer himself.
No wings, now
wish the dead
awake, wake
up! Early love
poems
pressed in a book.
O, you tug
at his wings,
tear them
away.