As the last light of the weakened sun slowly washes over the roofs,
as it starts dancing between the dimly green leaves of some forgotten branches,
rushes to the heights of heavy foundations, stone cold in the history breathing through them,
crashes to the dark paved alleys and the lonely flowers on the side walk,
and finally hits the golden tips of an airy messenger,
splinters into a thousand glimmering shards,
collected in a mass of angry clouds,
and at long last dies the glorious death of all things.
As the distant rush from shores far away washes over the highest tower of forgotten dreams,
full of the whispers of now broken illusions and cast down hopes,
steadily makes is way to the abandoned fore post of all expectation
and drowns out the last thought with the deafening force of a thousand voices.
As all things are drawn to their rest,
and every grain of light is drawn,
the world closes its eyes in earnest,
but the willows are still dancing… oblivious…
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