You stole pink from flambouyant flamingos,
They are beige from neck to beak;
And crimsons blanched from bailaoras,
Their Crespo ruffles incomplete.

You looted spirits from bottles
And then the seventh daughter;
Locked within a thinning tower,
No doors before or after.

Death trolls me, from Zaragoza to Kirkcaldy,
Stripped hydrogen from water;
Sank an island in the foaming sea,
Bestowed snakes for Gorgons to slaughter.

There are no flutes for celebrations,
All the grasslands withered;
Wishing life was for the living,
I lived my life misfigured.