I saw in the burning saucer of dawning sun

the shadows of evenings.

In the anger of their fading hustle and bustle,

not a single reflection of eternal magic

came down to the roof of my exploration.

Until today the tantalization of desperate eyes and

the glistening of the herald's breast were

far way from the deep saturation of cold trees.

The voice of the restless timeworn lips is useless.

Who knows

the craving “ring dove” of my urge

after lamenting the wiped out shadows of green trees

now gone to slumber?