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.