the edge of longing laps the soul,
the crane cries out in the dark,
eyes like broken pottery beckon

alone among the whistling reeds, she exudes panoramic indecency,
in shades of emerald malaise

reaching up towards the sky,
a drip of crimson stains the moon,
as viridescent globules blossom

she is gone, the wind whispers mockingly, traipsing through the shadows, maniacal glee emblazoned upon the stars themselves

she is gone, the wind whispers

she is gone