One late night (between seasons)

Her eyes were smouldering with mere tiredness,
Roasted chestnuts outlined with green shade in the shape
Of a crude almond. The enveloping blackness
Gradually seemed to thaw its range from utter cave
Of indistinction to summery evening milky-like air.
The ancient vagrant was murmuring a despair
Chorus hatched from the wise guts of that precise age
Which bewilderingly dwindles the brain’s extent and “sage”
Is the funny solution that crosses the middle line of the puzzle
Weaved in a passerby’s itinerant thoughts whose muzzle
Breathes only self-diluted gulps of ragged outer emotions.
The street lamps were bulbous stems wrapped in motions
Of erratic sparkle as of nylon wrapping securely gifts
Concealed predictably on upper shelves for holiday shifts.
The artificial palms on balconies were trembling in petty cry
For the chaste cotton fluff lost by the poplars nearby…

The atmosphere was, thus, suffused with placid gloom
Whose familiar fragrance I recognised as the doom
Which enacts endings that antedate solely starts,
The loyally unwavering cycle stitching all seasonal stars.

The photo’s source

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