He bought me
while I was ragged,
crimson soiled,
rooted- dead- sprung
up, spitting greens.
He exchanged
his eternal being
to wrap me
in the warmth
of the blood,
washed me—rivers
flower over me.
It wasn't gold
melted, solid, shining,
it wasn't silver
as the white sun reflects
on a pool of water.
Not the images of kings
and queens or petitions
signed with palms of
perishable princes
whose lives are but vapor.
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