Saturday, April 30, 2011


A morning sun,
A wavering tree,
And a shout that wakes the dead.

The rival moon,
Has set its wings,
While its chariot lingers about.

The thunder ceased,
The rain is gone,
But grayness still sweeps the clouds.

A morning sun,
A dying sun,
And a love that has dried out.

A flourishing moon,
A pale-faced moon,
And after the rain, mud stains the ground.

Thunder hits,
Rain begins,
Grayness is all around.

And souls hide,
In morning's night,
And never heard a sound.


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