You, German panther-author,
You who grabbed in wide white fists the Truth of the thing,
You with great eyes racing over images
To make the image eternal, and the eternal ours:
You were struck down in your haste for a flower,
Struck down to touch the beauty of the artifice.
You bled its crimson color and died there in the soil
To gather in your body all that is life:
You, the teeming silt of flowering earth,
You, the eternal Truth of the thing.
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