They watered its white petals with reddest blood,
And partied, drank, danced, and ate, with modern legend, well past midnight,
The flower of good success,
Its petals absorbed the blood, not their own,
And bloomed with such beauty,
Cannot be forgotten or unseen.
With words, which shimmering pictures made,
Smiles, champagne, limousines,
And flowers in flowing manes,
And they threw blood upon the flower,
An oblation to its infusion of beauty.
And unreality, they made, any fantasy enforced, And blood gathered from the believers of their very pretty lies,
The goodly gospel of good good good success.
And it delighted the eyes, the stomach, and the smiles.
And to its haunting melodies, we danced until sunrise,
But I could not deny the colour of grass or sky,
Or pretend clear skies were grey, and grey skies blue,
Or that the sun was but the moon.
And it flowered and bloomed,
And folk songs followed the flower,
And sought its wisdom and counsel,
And showered it in beautiful words and hopes,
And showered it in human blood.
Panglosses cheered and smiled, and danced,
And smoke like a machine consumed the scene,
And flames, like Roman candles did celebrate,
And around the flower, they danced,
And unlike the ancient living candles of Rome,
They did not go to a better place,
But their blood sparkled upon the petals,
And there they worshiped and rejoiced in the beauty,
Of the flowering flower, the flower of good success.
And as their many sacrifices, ordinary fools but armed with glitter and mascara, mirrors, and pyres of smoke, sparklers in their hands,
Flowers in their flowing long curls,
They danced into the flames, and smoke, and sacrificial beautifully spinning blades they themselves erected,
And their blood, too, hit the beautiful white flower,
Ingratitude their position of every bit of pride,
The flower of good success, full to excess,
But to me, it seems they never had lasting hope or real success.
Their blood spattered upon its petals,
And as the sun rose, it faded, and died, as all flowers eventually do,
And I watched from my spot a distance away,
As blood turned to dust and fed the soil.
Poem by Marc Evan Aupiais