Read Time:31 Second
And the clouds receded:
Bit by bit it dissolves
With the wind on the sky’s pew;
Spite the contraction of the beams,
Sunset resolves
The labour of man; after hours of hunting bread.
Busy streets are cemeteries.
Floors are swept by the night gale;
Silence sings to the night
Except the murmur of insects
And the whisper of the wind
Through the lips of the trees.
The body is dead as earth
While we revel resplendently
In our white dreams
That the night harvests.
Sheltered by our families,
Guided by the sky,
the stars,
the moon;
– These are inhered needs of man,
Lest we die!
