A fountain sings. Clouds stand
In clear blueness, white, delicate.
Silent people wander thoughtfully
Through the old garden in the evening.
The marble of the ancestors has faded to grey.
A line of birds streaks into the distance.
A faun with dead eyes gazes
After shadows that glide into darkness.
Leaves fall red from the old tree,
Rotate inside through the open window.
A firelight glows in the room,
And paints dim specters of anxiety.
Opal smoke weaves over the grass,
A carpet of wilted smells.
In the fountain the sickle moon shimmers
Like green glass in freezing air.
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