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The meadow lies deadly but bright at harvest tide Pied cattle lingering there slowly graze suicide From fall crocuses like miniature lilac tombs Your eyes share the color of those bruise-petaled blooms Purple tinted as the twilight at harvest tide And those eyes are the source of my own suicide Straight from the schoolyard children of the town Playing the harmonica and wearing hand-me-downs Pick flowers mum and daughter ring around the rosy Reflections of your pupils make a family posy From blossoms that flutter like eyelids in the breeze The herdsman softly humming quaint country melodies Leads out his stock forever lowing far and wide Abandoning the lovely poisoned fields of harvest tide
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