the cats are cold
they are yawning
Yes…yes
the butterfly yers fly gently over
the lower world
angels are carrying white stones,
building a house
while others are slumbering idly
in the golden woods
the autumn maiden enchanted them
with deep blue
she has kissed their tender, childlike foreheads
under the hill
who walks there in the chasm singing
it’s time to sleep
in the deep blue two kings pour sand
back & forth
the day king is frail and weak and tender;
he watches
how the sand tumbles white like snow
to the balcony
he looks in the book for sacred sounds
the book sleeps
having closed its white hand pages
over its breast
and the night king wanders in the sun
with a death’s head
he catches butterflies with a fine blue net
and then, like water, the time of living
drains away
that bears Ophelia down to her home
forever
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