Half-red, half-yellow, sinewy I grip
With potent gums onto the banister
Of music.
My notes call often desperate retreats
From battle-fields corpse-rich, still dear, still strong,
More passionate than grief, fevered than hatred,
Still dear, still strong, I wail a-down the breeze—
Which raises a poignant odour of putrefaction.
Flute
Though sharp