scarcely of the twilight in summer’s breath
you walk unmoving above nowhere

and I, hardly the old youth of your gaze,
see the sound of autumn’s valley
where you do not stand

over the brow of winter’s hill
silence brightly listens for the scent of your voice,
when your vanishes enormously sing alone
—yet only as perfection is alone

in beginnings end the blossoms of wishes
while endings writhe in withering leaves,
so blooms dying darkly rest upon lonely nights

afar off in unfelt thoughts not forgotten
toward us the ghost of you whispers

[for and of Larenti, whose absence weighs heavily on me today for reasons I cannot explain, an old wound freshly torn open]