the evening sky holds its strange blue face
long enough for even passersby in a hurry
to stop and throw a glance before night
turns it into the dark shade meant for
the melancholy behind the tree the moon
is more sensed than seen with a hint of
light that must be red if it is the full orb
does anyone still look out for it when it
arrives leisurely like a beloved who knows
one is worth waiting for and will not be
stood up the little one in the next balcony
is learning his first words and trying to
name wonders no more wonderful for us
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