the heavens are empty.
―💧
one day.
the air is gemmeous, sun so clear
that you seek out apricots on fire,
and smell the hawthorn's bitter fragrance
within your heart...
but the thornbush is dry, and black weaves
of dead trees cross the serene sky,
and the heavens are empty, and the ground
seems hollow underfoot.
silence, all around: alone, facing gusts of wind,
you hear in the distance, from gardens and groves,
the fragile foliage falling. it’s the cold
summer of the dead.
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