A  little flower lay dead here
From night, yet to be sung to
Its  fragrance is history, body
A map on my computer table.

Children are to be sung to
In  their innocence of sleep
For their lapse of memories
About their  womb-homes.

Green arms fly away in dance
To a burning  roof for dying.
They crawl to a sky for dream
Their rain-wet white  fragrance
A memory of  a song, a lullaby
In the night's throat, a scent
That remained there unsmelt.