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George Freek
Nightfall
The sunlight has faded
to a leprous gray,
like the colors
of an ancient roman mural,
speaking of dance and laughter.
The moon shines through it,
but the moon doesn’t know
if it’s day or night.
Those sightless eyes,
we call stars,
are barely glowing,
and winter is unaware
of its thoughtless cruelty.
Yet even in winter,
rivers don’t stop flowing,
and I still write poems.
When we’re young,
who among us
ever desires to look ahead?
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