a carmine poppy in a wheat field

forgotten in the rainstorm
as an riddle for recycling,
believer in the golden rule
described in ancient runes...
the intimate torn by the reaper
in the field of mars,
battling for a love myth
turned legend like dragons and fairies,
a castle built with stars powder
as if it had been sung by the bard of avon...
melancholy like an autumn sunset,
spheres of salt sliding like dry leaves in the wind,
desolate by a spring that had announced a summer
which never became blue ...
yet on the long, cold night of winter,
laden with bad omens carried
through the clouds of a coal pitch
your memory shines as if it were
the most luminous ruby
or a simple carmine poppy lost in a
yellow wheat meadow ...