As I sit closely to the narrow ridge leading to sister mountains, I see the blinded stars fall prey to the dawn.
They at first blink to shower their pride, they laugh at your morning sky,
then by sudden alarmed nakedness, they hide behind those white curtains of cotton balls.
And as you pull down the screen they have long gone.
The stage long withstood your ruthless windblows.
Once you roared and wept all night and it had crept under the riverbed.
My meadows were lied of your coming and now they lay barren parched mudfields.
As another night cloaks and clogs me,
I thought in that moment of wisdom if I were to fall under the magical spell of your heavenly darkness or the disguised light facing its back to horizon.
I would choose to sit at midrib of pass and see the blinded stars like me again falling prey to this darkness of your heaven.
As amused or bemused as you should be, when I scythe in air,
my parts shall not germinate, nor shall they rot,
for they lie in your garden apples and so in the red lips you have.