All fine and awful ways come to this end,
for the sons and daughters of the day:
the foe approaches, becomes a friend,
time sinks in, and a tincture of decay
spreads silent within, and darkly grows.
That is not how the night’s life goes.
No easy end greets we of the mossy grave,
The night of veils, even the dayborn knows,
can grasp a soul here, where none can save
or succour, none can live, none fully die.
We, left to the dark, the bruised-black sky,
must be silent, absent from each day we gave
to our posterity, nor in pained nights cry
save this one, dark, hungry night. Be brave,
sweet children. Here, enjoy. Now what do you say?
Brrr!, shiver — Excellent imaging, Brian. And the skill of the rhyming adds to the chill. Excellent is definitely the word that describes this poem.
Wow! High praise, Gene, thank you!
I particularly thank you for noticing the rhyming; that was a tricky pattern and I was pleased with how it turned out.