While the virus waits in the streets

All things are made to end.
Except the imputations from
this vile, detested, and
slanderous season.
As the innocent flowers fade.
Stifled of life and overwhelmed
by endless beseeching.
The only hope, that on
the last stroke of death.
Tongues dripped in suffering
will talk of these damning sins.
And the black, dry winds
forever blowing.

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