The Ball

The sun lights up the air at dawn, and crystal lutes play the tune. We wonder whatever went wrong as we choke on funeral fumes. They leave it in the air tonight, packed in slowly a tempest fright. The fever spills upon the sand as armies march across the land. We play in time, the world cries, out amongst the things that die. The cinders come and draw us nigh as we figure upon the lie. To restrain the number called while ladies dance inside the hall. They look so lovely at the ball just before the maddening fall.