It is all dross and leeward of a sigh
and half-light of our half drawn blind
against the more than east wind and the dry
dust in the always promise of mankind.
Still, let us recall what the trouvères
could only half remember, what Loris
knew he could not set to rhyme.
Those days held boisterous suns along the air;
they were a garden walled with promise,
a trinity of love and loss and time.