Mystery Of Night
It has no ends, it has no proems.
It has a name – the autumn night.
Personifying hundreds poems
We are just following its flight.
There are just sleeping blocks around,
Where even Drip would seem profane.
We move but we don’t touch the ground
As if the Night was just a fane.
The Fog’s an owner of the air
And River's evanesced in it –
Like Lethe – black, like Lethe – fair,
This River was born in the pit.
And like Abaddons of Profound
The Silence disembodies us.
In lights of neon signs I’ve found –
We turned into the phantoms thus.
In this dendritic Fog I beckon
You to the dark seraphic height.
After this Night no one could reckon
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