Morning dew The golden blood of trolls Surprised and slain by day.
Early The empty streets The long shadows The ruined moon Already half gone.
A train in the night. Steam whistle. The room turns cold.
It’s the same south wind that blew last year, That tempted monk-brown April to lustful green. Lost corn husks fly aimless, demented through air.
Dusk, a green bronze bell West burnished bright, Rings ghost songs in the still frost.