The Brilliance of the Ending Day
Let's sit under the tall, satured elm after the long-gone storm;
its branches, unwavering and steaming, are awfully warm.
They stretch their drooping arms to brush off the remaining hues,
those of a placid sunset turned apple-red.
Hear me warbling along with the shivering mockingbird,
too lonely and in somber mood. He relies on his brain,
absorbing the faint heat...before he dies of his amorous evening blues,
I should comfort him and soothe his inconsolable pain.
And watching him, I recall the state I was in, miserable and frail...
until I realized that I was missing: a hand to touch me and restore my will.
I have brought a basket of Californian sun-ripened fruits,
tempting and lively; look inside, cast your gleeful glance on it.
Be that eagle with quick claws when his empty guts emit growls;
pick the ones your palate craves or those with attracting colors.
My pick is that of a yellow apple like your golden hair slightly wet,
it reminds this lover of the delirious laughter chasing another sunset.
Let's behold the brilliance of the ending day which refuses to subdue;
only the sadness concealed in the depths of our souls holds the clue.
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