æfensang

Dusk sets upon the fields
waiting for the cold cold night.
Breezes yield to stillness
steeled against the even blight.
Shadows cleave the grains -
those who wander fields at night.
For night is what remains
when the moon has cast its light
on those who feign possessions
of meadows full and spright,
and dance amongst the grist
of grasses that recite
the songs of nightly sorrows
that the shadows never write.