They do not talk of death,

Their black hearts turned sunwards.

Red dressed Spanish ladies,

 Flamenco dancers, Passion painted  

Amongst the carnival of hues,

Browns and greens and blues.

Softly swaying, rhythms slow

 In the whispering cool that blows

 The hot heat out of summer,

 Bearing red petalled breasts up to suns touch.

They do not talk of death

But pulse life

Sucked from earth through stem,

To sunlight again.