The woods are burning. Fields
are burning. Beautiful red ruins
of dusk blazing into blossom.

What do I know of death, of dying?

Light has closed her drowsy eyes,
climbs into the black-veined branches,
quickly dies. A golden-shadowed moon

stirring up the speckled moth, graceful
multitudes of crane fly, midnight flowers.
Night takes them all into its mouth

without a conscience, swallows.

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