Is there ever love at dusk,
As the blue moon rises
Above abandoned treetops;
As dawn breaks without echoes
Of birdsongs once composed
In a garden forever green
By a gardener no longer loving;
As noontime kneels and bows
To the whims of the final few
Sighs of abandonment: her love
Protruding; her shadow
A high tide
In moonlight.
Is there ever love
At dusk,
At dawn,
Or at her kneeling noon.
