Alas, the day is short and is forlorn.

Monuments of vermillion sun-soaked
Stone, stand gracious in those black winter
Winds— I do not mind; I look on in awe
And dream of life, and wake to death
Crumbling, faltering‚ and bathe in strife
Making ad-hoc meals of thorns like a goat.

Red rituals of old spheres mean nothing,
When you’re but human, seeing, breathing;
In the end there’s only deeds and shadows—
I weep and thus, rest the day, enveloping all.