Lords called the stone cherubs
Who rest in autumn by the boughs,
Bows arched, pointed
In the direction of sunrise
Delicious await the coming dawn
While the fugitive fall of the day recalls
Her transitory dress, the jewels embossed
On red linen that fell
As itinerants fall in prayer,
While the altar of her eyes
Still burned, ephemeral,
Unchanged.
The mists are rising through the arch
Like incense, these bridges that pierce
So many breasts;
The cloak of the twilight descending
Arrests a few transient pigeons
Who peck at the stone and prepare to,
Like so many statues,
Return to their nests.
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