Literature
the carnival of ash.
If in time of flowers there should come a waltzing hour when
a watercolor caravan breaks through a grove of charcoal trees and from the boughs you see some tiny wizened fingers flash the secret skies a sign at morning,
then take care to bend the sunbeams, shush the bed springs, dust me from the dirty corner, sweep my bones, cajole my feet, for the king has called off melancholy.
It's a carnival of ash.
If in time of needles you are dancing with black beetles and you hear a velvet beating from the heart within the ground
get away from torpid thinking pay no mind to time or cost
move your mouth to sound the call
this is the carnival