Kill the world softly that speaks,
In detail’s creed.
Mind you, there are sunflowers, listening
To the song of days.
The days beneath the sun, look up and exclaim:
You there that abhors, renegades!
The sun sits them down, in response,
She brushes their hair as they cry on her shoulder,
Live long.
The peaches are falling and the sun picks them up:
Sunny Bun.
The peaches are falling and the sun picks them up:
Sunny, Sunny Bun. No soil fit for thee.
© Michal Rotko
Photo by Jordan Cormack on Unsplash
Michal Rotko 