Night Is a Cistern

Night is a cistern. Owls sing. Refugees tread meadow roads   

with the loud rustling of endless grief.   

Who are you, walking in this worried crowd.   

And who will you become, who will you be   

when day returns, and ordinary greetings circle round.

Night is a cistern. The last pairs dance at a country ball.   

High waves cry from the sea, the wind rocks pines.   

An unknown hand draws the dawn’s first stroke.   

Lamps fade, a motor chokes.   

Before us, life’s path, and instants of astronomy.