death is more forgiving than the loss of one’s heart; the void that thrums softly and silence that longs for just the right sweetness, the right song, the right breath for the lilies in the valley to ring once more; mother, spring has left me, the stars go out one by one, i cannot hear— i have grown deaf to the raptures that once enthralled me, the crust has broken open, i am swallowed whole and the pomegranate remains unbitten,