In the dead of night,
Lies stillness.

In the bright daylight,
Soars the whimpering cry of wounded bird.

At half-past eleven,
Brooks rush to flow.

Lightning strikes.
Thunder booms.

Flowers bloom,
Violet orchids smile.
The cusp is filled, water drips.

Bamboo pierces the hardened soil.
Discovers the secrets of earth.

At three quarter,
Moist mud glistens.

At ten to six,
Dames bathe in pale moonshine.

By nine o’clock,
She moans.
Groans.

Such is desire.

Of a muse
Who

Longs.

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