The silhouettes of passing men walk by
while low the sun is blazing in the sky.
Homeward I watch them scurry on their way
before the closing of a winter’s day.
The night in looming threat, in steady crawl,
is summoned by an early hooting call.

But in this world the stars will never shine
and never honor this sad pantomime.

The shadows of the past are fainting still
while spent, the candle flickers on the sill.
Homebound, I study as the dying flee
before the ultimate reality.
The Darkness comes, and weary, we must sleep.
Is not this owl, this portent, cause to weep?

And in the world no dreams are left to shine.
They’ re suffocated by the pantomime.

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