My Lord, my Lord, what games we play with these
almighty colours of the drowned
that follow us with pains that never ease,
hearing only the faintest echoes sound.
And we, my lord, among your city of branches
catch at its lights cradled within a tear
as it will drop, seemingly to death.
Thus the wood blows its candles as it blanches,
brief as it is on its broad wings of air,
falls just as simple as a final breath.