Dappled amber caresses green hands,
Comforts the crimson beside the golden,
Damaged and burnt -
At the setting of the sun.
Another Eden has come and gone;
Now rakes take away the spent and tired -
For what use now their supplications to the sun?
The days grow dim, grey;
The last rays of splendour grow short;
Time now turns to the whitened blanket,
Somnolence and muffled silence -
Leaving only bony digits straining to the heavens,
And a quiet, humble prayer:
That golden orb may smile on them once more.