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.
the craving “ring dove” of my urge
after lamenting the wiped out shadows of green trees
now gone to slumber?