perhaps it is like the sun that sets
slowly o'er all things that breath
and o'er all things that are like stone
perhaps that pale silence
in the dusk of autumn
describes it best
when dry leaves would dance
upon dry air that is neither warm nor cool
but is cradled all encompassing
in the dim fire of late afternoon

it is that song of clouds that drift
releasing the world for moments
from golden sunlight's grip
'tis the time of revealing
of this morbid understanding
of the sun that will set
of the leaves that will fall
of the ignorance of man
that will persist and breed suffering

the afternoon is sung in sombre comfort
in that dull acceptance and strange
beauty found in its tragic sunset

it is Dies Irae sung by one voice
not even well
just dry and sweet and sullen



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