3 A. M.

The dawn seems drained of blood so colourless —

Slowly the river moves as though in sleep

While silent barges

Slide from the mist like dreams;

The intricate patterns of the scaffolding

Are drawn against the sky

More delicate than lace.

All the shimmering lights

Have shrunk away from morning

As a blue peacock sheaves his starry tail....

I am alone, most utterly alone,

More lonely than the last man in the world

Straying amid the dust of vanished lives.

More lonely than a spirit stolen from heaven

Who stands beside that nebulous cold river

Dividing sleep from death,

Eternity from time....

Nothing disturbs the white peace of the dawn,

She brings no feverous memories of night

And sheds no tears.

Only two hours ago

Fire walked in crimson armour through the city

Piercing the night's black tent with glittering javelins,

While shrieks and whispered omens flew like bats

Among the silver foliage of the stars....

But rage has left no furrow in the sky,

No wake of sparks across the placid water....

This is the ominous and sacred hour

When priest-like the world kneels

Bowed low toward the empty throne of day —

Soon will the herald trumpet-blast be heard

And the flamingo messengers will come

Flocking from out the burnished cage of sunrise....

This is the hour of nothing,

Colourless and chill

Oblivion's hands are folded on the world,

As sits an idol holding in his fingers

A scentless lotus carven out of stone.