Molten tears Pluto cried
at Orpheus's sad tale
fed the black stream
which runs down a hill
children sometimes climb
after school, knee-high
in dark green grass.
Their mothers call and call
them back to fatherless homes
filled with metal, with glass.
Starlight falls through roofs.
Dinners are silent, short.
The window sills bear
stones and twigs found while out
walking along that black
trickle. It springs from a place
older than human love.
A face marks it. None know its name.
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