Midnight Trees

I walk on the earth of my childhood dreams:
 The kings are entombed in their shady rest
And sorely diminished everything seems.
  On a flat bed, hope wakes me at midnight:
  Through my window shines the tall city’s light.
Brave few stars shimmer ineffable gleams;
  Technology smolders a dreary sight.
 Despair is a sin all sages attest,
 But often my own loneliness seems best.
Late, in silence, seep slowly sleep’s soft streams:

Lean, lovely trees sway with chaste histories.
In their play of leaves, whisper mysteries:
 “Come out, my Daphne, Apollo has died!”
  In my sleep, I turned and wrestled and cried.