Dear Cyprus, toss your dirty needles into that black water.
The raven found its voice in your canopy, while choking moonshine beneath your leaves
dead now as you should be.
I want to die in your arms and be forgotten.
Dear Cyprus, what makes you able to stand tall while all the world around you burns?
Is it the thought of drowning unnoticed in the black water that lay before your knees?
Dear Cyprus, what say you? Are you willing to be my living tomb?