Out of blood comes anemone
Comes the flower the maiden holds
And falls in love with death, the truth
Of spring, not the myth,
a bird that sings at night
and sings alone,
the love herself denied, a sacrifice
that makes of art a vow
be true to death in life, no signs
but discarded treasure found,
a comb for her golden hair,
a paper knife, a silver coin,
a button missing from her blouse,
the relics of an empty house.