Yellow maize of bells calls twilight down through red autumn.
Scroll paintings of falling water hang at the end of the world,
As empty cruets of stars advance in white ink of birds.
Over your grave,
A darkness of September-olives kneels in silver lace,
And night opens pale robes of wind.
Ancient seas of withered corn whisper from golden hours
Beneath Sistine skies.
Voices become still.
A purple wine of hills empty to diamond and ash of a first snow.
Blackbirds wait in crumbling shadows of dark monuments.
The last sleep of the innocence.