All the branches are old
In this garden of trees
Nowhere futures to hold
In uncertainty of guaranty
Grass grows always dark
In the wonderment of diffuse
Creditability is its spark
Filling tongues with its clues
Pure as moments of gleam
Every worth conquered
Nothing is what it seem
Between lines be awarded
Fancy hold passing outside
Architecture of open space
Silences in their ride
With their many knotting lace
The hour is becoming old
With earth in music reflection
Shadows that a day can't hold
Every occurrence selection
Voices low to answered wind
Where it comes - where it goes
Disciplined and thick-skinned
To and fro to the ears flows
Dedicated to Octavio Paz
Peter S. Quinn
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-the-dark-garden/
