The twilight of water

The flowers have drifted away in the low of the water along the shores

The flowers? The marvellous water in which the dying evening turns golden;

the dying petals twirl and topple

in the current of the river, deflowered by a chill blue breeze,

and far, far across the plains, run on to

the edge of the world, where is born the red dawn.

The flowers have drifted away in the flow of the water along the shores

The flowers? Those of fresh and fragile flax, encorollate,

are soothed by the rolling of slow, elusive barques,

and sadly, with sorrowful heedlessness, alight and multiply

on the mirrored surfaces of slow-moving rivers,

flowing, into the distance, between the pines.

The flowers on the whirling water in the flow of tree-lined streams...

O the black silence of the waters! The terror under the branches;

glacial chill of the frozen river stripped...

and in the deep night of the park where whispers have died

in the mist in which rises the pallor of a statue,

the sadness and the nudity of the nocturnal waters.

The flowers on the whirling water in the flow of tree-lined streams...