by Evan Risch //
The sky concludes its silent cannonade; A pearly carpet shrouds the ghostly land. The setting golden coin—its last grenade— Is hurled aloft by a retreating hand And paints the glossy streets in amber light While bygone sins are vanquished in the night.
Oh, night that breathes a purifying shade, Transport us to the copse where willows stand And shore us with the infinite arcade Of trunks and boughs; that one day we may band Together, brightened by the moon, despite The momentary grief that saps our might.
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