The soft wind
is full of silent spirits
that swirl around the stars
and tall, dark evergreens.
Young cornfields,
shadowed by blue mountains,
shiver in the cold embrace
of the awakened souls.
The high-reaching steeple
stands pale and still
as the ethereal wind knocks
the great brass bell
once, twice.
Amongst granite gargoyles
the spirits rest and watch
the lamp-lit glare
of a cat’s eyes in the street.
And when the crescent moon
begins its slow descent
the spirits sigh
and swirl around
the stars one
more time.
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