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Description
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It rose from the water there, a delicate thing.
Its corroded walls of red and brown,
thin as paper, clung to patchworks of paint.

It rose in the air now, a delicate thing.
It wept the river in streams of reddish brown,
a sea of waterfalls, as clear as fog.

It hugged the earth now, a delicate thing.
Its face still smiles muted and round,
to spite its fate, that crisp death.

It bends and breaks now, a delicate thing.
It is pregnant with white and blue,
matured long ago, that harsh death.

It floated away from there, a delicate thing.
Its body bruised with red and brown,
a violent end, a delicate thing.

But its face still smiles,
muted and round.

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Description
-

It rose from the water there, a delicate thing.
Its corroded walls of red and brown,
thin as paper, clung to patchworks of paint.

It rose in the air now, a delicate thing.
It wept the river in streams of reddish brown,
a sea of waterfalls, as clear as fog.

It hugged the earth now, a delicate thing.
Its face still smiles muted and round,
to spite its fate, that crisp death.

It bends and breaks now, a delicate thing.
It is pregnant with white and blue,
matured long ago, that harsh death.

It floated away from there, a delicate thing.
Its body bruised with red and brown,
a violent end, a delicate thing.

But its face still smiles,
muted and round.

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