Survey we now our garden,
So recently sown,
Reduced to torn-earth shell holes;
Secret crocus patch I laid
For your astonished delight
Ripped by wrath from womb;
Those potentials I believed
Had promised springtime color:
Sad, silent bulbs crushed dead
Sad, silent bulbs crushed dead
Yet lift my ragged banner,
Stained by these indignities,
Hope stark hues suffice;
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