In Parley

I once saw Death himself
Across the river banks,
Bound by flood, he stood near oak
When its trunks caught fire.
Scared, I extended arm to a flower
And it spoke to me: "O poor tree!
It stood there like you and me,
Waving trunks in wind it could
But now it's gone for good."
I then reassured the flower:
"Worry you decidedly should not!
You will be safe from Death
So long as mighty fire
Had not yet learned the ways of air!
And water, too, is beyond his power
Contrary to their firely desire."
That is, to first learn–all
And destroy–all it requires.
Then, I continued: "In any case,
I can simply pick a shovel
And dig you out of here alive!
I will later put you in a pot,
After all, you're pretty short..."
Flower momentarily protested:
"It's so classic of your lot,
To treat us as–if we were conquered.
Piss off now and you'll be fine,
Or you'll regret it in short time."

Afterwards, I put it in a pot.
Will it now seek revenge?
Surely it's not; where men ravish,
In parley, with feathers flying
Left and right, in a fiercely fight
To themselves—a plan o'cunning,
They one to another would be carving...
A man who with but no chagrin,
As vice yarns fee fi and smells of rum,
He thirsts for blood of an Englishman.
Cossack soul, whose blood that is
Fluid, red and just as thick with sin.
The fight is unavailing!
In a corner of a sill, below the attic
The flower silently stood static.
While my darkest fears, well-packed
Distinctly and distraughtly frantic,
Were slowly begging me to differ
As to whether if the silent whisper
Clicked and clacked to form a dither.
"The flower, oh dear flower...
You're not free, but safe in here
From Death, from the deadly fear!"
Now, what's the matter with them odds?
They aren't doing me a favour.
However cruel had been done the deed,
There's perverse satisfaction to it.