THE sentries in their boxes,
Like rigid dolls of wood,
In saffron-yellow tunics
Lethargically stood.
The shower had not finished
And still her threaded tears
Fell down like little seconds
Across the flight of years.
The pavement was a mirror
Which caught the jets of light,
The twinkling strings of jewels
That pour from lamps at night.
Suffused among the turrets
A solitary bird
Imprisoned in its feathers
A music faint and blurred....
In bed, I heard the creeping,
The rippling drum of rain
And watched the twilight falling
Upon the window pane.