Ri[o]te of Spring
Listen,
As the wise woman speaks
Prognostication of propitiation
Divide
Divide
Your groups
Encircle each other
an Ouroboros
Doubled
ᗡonqlɘp
Throw yourself like those of plague
You are not cursed,
Not immolated by St. Anthony’s Fire,
You were chosen by some twisted choice
Of Fate Herself
Dew dappled on the fresh grass
Mixed with the red of young blood
Like Persephone’s anabasis,
Spring will come Again.












