Lying under the umbrella of the green, Sprinkling in the night a shade of red, Like the stars killing all the spleen, With a shimmer for which the love led.
It was the black of her dream, In which lingered the stroke of his breath To truss her in an ageless seam Where dulcet sounds just the moment than life or death.
Mingled with the delicate scent, The frozen moment of the flowing ticks, Whispered a kindly solace, felt like a rent, To be paid for a few stolen favors of the retiring Nyx.
Spread over her lost soul a carpet Made wet by the dawning haze, Whose pattern of green and scarlet Danced with her lover's gaze.
Frail like the words of a feeble verse, Strong like the edicts of a staunch fate, In a season of curse, The two submitted for a long wait.
