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Michelle

Hell hath no fury
Hell needn’t any.
The frost stung enough
And the blades kept singing.
All the devils
All the devils
Laughing in the wind.
Hell hath no fury,
Hell hath none.
It blooms instead in
Wild and forgotten
Groves
And bones.




"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," being the usual version, @Aphelion

And I find myself wondering if this has any connection to your Hallowe'en name, Mic(hell)e...!

Be that as it may, this seems a statement that hell is insufficient. The frost (coldness, winter's death and desolation), blades (that which wounds) speak of fury enough. The singing of the blade's reminds me of a butcher using a sharpening steel. Though , in the context, the rustling of blades of rough grass may be in view. Maybe both. Weapons that hurt, and the desolation of the overgrown "groves" mentioned later.

Repetition of "all the devils" lends a sense of incredulity at the cruelty of the laughter of the wind - maybe the same wind that stirs the blades, or carries their memory.

"Wild and forgotten groves and bones" has a sense of overgrown, abandoned holy places and ruined tombs. As if some ancient, half remembrance speaks of a fury of which modern, shallow conceptions of hell are but a picture. "Hell hath no fury - our pain has deeper, more real, roots."

This is complex, but moving.

@sj_ashcroft2 thank you for your beautiful assessment 🖤