Firesong
Born green we were
to this flawed garden,
but in speckled thickets, warted as a toad,
spitefully skulks our warden,
fixing his snare
which hauls down buck, cock, trout, till all most fair
is tricked to faulter in split blood.
Now our whole task's to hack
some angel-shape worth wearing
from his crabbed midden where all's wrought so
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