innocence of morning winds
over the ashen skies,
whose leaves withering
and seer of cypress wreathes
and bitter oleander’s pallor
bades adieu to the crescent scene - -

and,

the penultimate fight for each life
even those flickering nights
but must die for death in stillness
will make alive … the dawn’s sight -
whose limbs will feed the brittle day
and blood will wash memories away - -

now -

let us go out over that place, where
lover’s complacence of violet space
has marked the land of erstwhile brave;
and break free shackles of restful peace
look through the prisms of nascent glow
to the second birth of our moral soul.