Dead Wings

All the flowers were but birds with dead wings -
betrothed to the ground, flaunting the green cords
that rendered them legitimate and true -
they were to be seen, objects and subjects.

What was the sky to them - a disruption?
Erupting red like the fires that wed them;
carrying the weight of dew drops upon them -
they knew that one cannot marry the sky.

So they looked up to the bland nothingness
and in it they saw themselves getting stirred.
They invented their trance and smiled awhile:
to be contained in the dervish's circle!
One last act of their infidelity.