.
What time was evening when night began?
Which morning was hourglass sand?
Drifting too fast away from our seeing,
making caricatures of our being?
Mighty stars always fade
before the parade
of morning-to-be
from night that was.
Our kind leaves this shore for another.
The Trumpeteer, never our brother.
One more day begins
as warm night ends.
What news, Iago?
What truths, Hamlet?
Is Ophelia still living
in waters of Death?
.
elysabeth faslund
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/heaven-knows-7/
