We make ink
from the soot
of the burned homes of poets
from ground cloves and jade
and the smoke of pine-trees
at the start of summer.
We crush the eggs of wasps
crack open the galls
and break the unformed bodies.
Colours all fade in time:
Lazuli Blue
Beetle-Blood Red.
Ochre Yellow.
But
the Black we make remains
the letters grow blacker with age
outlasting the paper they’re written on.
The words blow away...
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