Ruminant dusk presides
over the end of day.
Melancholic thought,
that strains to be expressed,
your passing into night
is swifter than any tongue that might
consummate your expression.
Lifter of shadows,
layer of dim shade,
the fires of your kiln
cast the world in a muted glaze.
Because the day is gone
and the night inevitable,
I bask in your disinterested light
gathering up all my secrets
in preparation for the coming dark.
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