The sleeping music lies
in harmonies of stream
and spring and waterfall;
glissandos into pools
where quiet waters swirl,
and leaves stirred by the evening breeze
perform a pas-de-deux.
When silken skies subside,
enchanted,
gold and rose,
their glow embalms
the sallow flesh of day
and calms each bruise,
till in sleep I'm drowned
with echoes of those
whose shadows form,
like flotsam
on the dead sea swell;
fragmented figures from the past,
now bereft of sound.
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