WHAT A SIGHT IT IS TO SEE,
In the stillness of the leaves,
A quiet forest—dead white trees—
Limbs splayed out, contorted,
Dry as a dead man’s hand.
Not one alive in all the rows,
They soon will bloom again.
That’s what sets the figs and furs,
Apart from human beings.
Memoirs of Eden in a dream,
Rolling fields of ardent green.
Lilacs upturned to Sol to drink,
Mother Earth, the sun, a spun,
Hangs overhead—by none forgot.
The night-time comes, wind slows its pace,
The sun went down,
And the crickets sang:
another lament for the day.
And friends you’ve lost, all those gone,
Will meet you at the shore to see you on,
The day will sleep, Luna takes the throne—
Her cloak was ragged and star-strewn,
when in the shadow of penumbra,
where the lost light strays,
the creatures in the shadows roam,
until was killed by bejeweled Dawn.
In the hole are those who stole,
a shelter from the rain;
to wake, to laugh, to sing,
The golden harvest in the spring.
The wheat in the gold fields sway,
Mother Earth, she breathes, a breeze,
as though the glimpse of Eden,
was just a fevered dream.
All the beauty they had seen,
The last of dying daylight bleeds.
Moments cling to days and blink—
The tether left behind.
Elaborate a tapestry of twine.
Sewn together scraps of cloth,
The interwoven pattern lost