The pale face is tonight,
Since the moon must maintain;
And dry wood is being burned,
Grace remains in the chimney.

At white ribs as death,
Melt and the last point.
The long ark is waiting,
At the other end of the tower.

The sweet sounds ended,
No birds coming to the window.
At that time, the sparrow flew,
When the man opened the chest.

2002

© Ed Martini