The spring day in waning light
dies, still fair and bright
outside,
a long and peaceful departure,
a death such as dreamed
by poets time has made
but motes of dust
after more usual deaths;
yet, here is beauty from their pen -
outside time's running sand
made into separating glass,
dividing light and dark;
but here sat I, in the corner
of a shady room and translate,
and turn to write
this when that golden light
gains an orange hue where
the shadows gain outside,
and here they deepen
around me, shadows
ever present,
and I take warmth
from a coffee mug and words
of the long dead.
08.03.2025
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